


Tangle, Stretch, Never Break

by kromi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Asexuality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hanyatta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kromi/pseuds/kromi
Summary: He does not care for the observations: does not like being told what he already knows but does not want to admit out of self-perceived sense of honor."I do not need a master," he told the omnic once, caustic, beyond irritation.Zenyatta tilted his head slightly, hands neatly in his lap. "No," he said, his voice ever-calm, near-toneless, "but I figure you would need a friend."





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I've sat on this thing for long enough and I don't know what to do with it anymore so here it is. I don't know if it makes sense or if it's even a full story, just a bunch of headcanons stuffed together to form (hopefully) somewhat cohesive narrative. Maybe someone can find it enjoyable; maybe there is someone who even WANTS to read about this rarepair.

 

_"The present moment_  
_contains past and future._  
_The secret of transformation,_  
_is in the way we handle this very moment."_

Thích Nhất Hạnh

 

 

 

It was an ugly deal, not really any different from the usual Overwatch business: the whatever the old boyscouts wanted retrieved and secured after a battle drawn out way too long, bodies strewn all over, and quick withdrawal before the _actual_ law enforcement showed up. Maybe he tolerates the work because the long-held moral high ground is now gone and what's left of the Overwatch operates only a little less like terrorists. Not that he would want to stoop to the Talon level of wreaking havoc, but he's glad the Overwatch isn't, at least, pretending to be something they are not, and it makes it easier for him. He's a bit past good deeds at this point and the pay is good enough.

Having to go on missions with his brother is one of the downsides, the anger and pain and, yes, guilt, heavy upon him, sometimes like a hazy red curtain over his vision, his aim everything but true. The rest of them he does not care about: does not know them well enough, only knows the money will be wired to him through means no less illegal than the things they do, and that is the only things that matters. He ignores the Frenchwoman who occasionally shows up in the shadows, her affiliation with Overwatch likely not that of cooperation, who entices him with the promises of Talon helping the Shimada clan rise from the ashes he and his brother have already scattered into the wind. He gives even colder shoulder to the omnic, the one who helped his brother accept whatever it is he is now, the one who taught him, his master, and who now hounds him nigh relentlessly with irritatingly insightful observations into his deepest thoughts and emotions. He _supposedly_ harbors the same rage that his brother once did, that's what the omnic claimed the very first time they met. How in the world does a _robot_ do that, he cannot comprehend. The more he sees of the omnic the less he thinks of him as one, though, despite the way he looks: the way he floats a few feet above the ground defying gravity, the way his near-toneless low calm voice resonates strangely in his ears, the way you absolutely cannot read anything from a face that is only a mask to give him human-like appearance to cover whatever state-of-the-art processing power that makes him eerily sentient.

He does not care for the observations: does not like being told what he already knows but does not want to admit out of self-perceived sense of honor.

"I do not need a master," he told the omnic once, caustic, beyond irritation.

Zenyatta tilted his head slightly, hands neatly in his lap (he's noticed the intricate work on the joints, every finger curled like a human one). "No," he said, his voice ever-calm, near-toneless, "but I figure you would need a friend."

He had stormed away, the concrete wall a forthcoming servant as he set out to find a higher vantage point before the whatever plot was put into action, knowing the omnic would not follow. A lingering feeling of peaceful silence remained, his own evil voice quiet for a moment in his head, soothed silent by the strange warm embrace of the omnic's powers.

He does not need a master or a friend or anyone to tell him how he should feel about things he's responsible for. He does not need a healer or even someone to talk to. He's chosen and accepted his path and it is a lonely, guilt-ridden one.

He sneaks about the battlefield, small though it is, retrieving his arrows from the bodies and the occasional misfired one from the floorboards or the wall, each one of them like the sharp slash of a whip across his sense of honor and self-sufficiency. The sirens are still far away, he still has time. The night is dark and there in the corner, when he straightens up, sliding another wiped-clean arrow into the quiver, he sees the faint glow of pale blue, a strange flicker that puts him ill at ease. There weren't any omnics, he did not see any. He notches an arrow, takes a silent step forward and the next one steals the breath from his lungs, unexpected, unprepared.

The lights on Zenyatta's forehead flicker lazily, there is no defying gravity, just a pile of small half-clothed robot, the decorative little spheres that always hover in perfect formation around him now lightless, spread inert on the floor around him, and then he notices the sparks, the gaping slag-edged hole in his chest and the next steps he takes are not silent, not careful, and he kneels next to the injured omnic. His bow's on the floor, his hand reaching to touch something, not sure what: he doesn't know what to do in a situation like this and all he can do is try to shove the sudden guilt, worry, _fear_ , to the back of his head where he keeps everything he does not want to think about. He wasn't supposed to _care_ this much. _He cannot keep anyone safe, can he?_

Zenyatta takes his hand before he can touch, those intricately jointed fingers closing around his hand, cool and not soft, but very gentle and mindful of how the whatever alloy he's made of is superior to his flesh.

He holds the hand, desperate for eye contact or some sign that everything is alright, cursing out in his mind the mask the omnic cannot help but wear, the way his unchanging appearance does nothing to prove that he is a sentient being capable of thought and feeling and

dying.

"It is alright," Zenyatta says, voice the same resonating near-toneless calm, but there's a dangerous crackle, like interference.

He feels Zenyatta's fingers tighten around his hand: a reassuring squeeze, a hidden smile that is not on his face.

"What can I do?" he starts to ask when there's a soft thud, the sudden sound of pitter-patter of footfalls and his bow is primed, the string pulled back taut with a trembling hand; biting on his lip so hard he's drawn blood. He sees the green glow of the visor before anything else, knows it's his brother before he speaks and Genji is by their side before he's even lowered the bow. He couldn't have hit a wall: his hands are shaking, his mind a mess he hopes would now be soothed by those strange powers Zenyatta wields, but there is nothing but the gnawing guilt and fear and now something new, something uglier as Genji kneels next to Zenyatta, starts helping him up carefully.

"Master," his brother says, worry palpable as he gathers the injured omnic on his arms, "what happened?"

"A miscalculation, Genji, it's alright," Zenyatta replies, toneless calm, toneless calm, _toneless calm,_ and he wants to rage at the world, shout every unwanted thought and emotion out of his mind, his body. It is thoroughly distressing what this has done to him: just the sight of the omnic he wasn't supposed to care about having been injured rendering him helpless and like there is something very wrong about the entire thing. A fist around his heart, the hazy red curtain of guilt and anger over his vision. He should have _noticed_ one of his comrades got injured during the fighting.

But he was never responsible for the omnic, ever. Why should he ever care what happens to him? Because he is important to his brother? That must be it.

His brother turns to him and even through the visor he can sense the cold, the sudden piercing _blame:_ something he expected when they met for the first time in years, when he thought his brother would be there for revenge. It was not to be, but he has still not accepted that whatever Genji is truly _is_ his brother and from what he can tell Genji might have forgiven him, having found peace within himself, but the strain is there and they are brothers only in blood and name now.

It might be his fault alone. It might be what Zenyatta is trying to fix. He does not _know_ what could be fixed exactly. And now there is a chance that he will never even find out.

He hopes his brother would have been thirsty for vengeance, because now there is blame and hurt; because of _this_ , and he is ill-equipped to deal with everything it is stirring awake.

"You didn't think taking him out of here would be something you ought to do?" Genji asks him in Japanese, scathing, words coated with ice, sharp like the blade of his sword and cutting just as deep. "You really do not care about anything but yourself."

He cannot answer, he has nothing to say.

He should have done that. He should have tried to help.

"You did plenty," Zenyatta says quietly to which he still says nothing and Genji reacts by whipping his head angrily towards his master, betraying there is still something left of that temper; that his training is perhaps not as complete as he's been led to understand. Maybe it's just the protectiveness: the whatever these two share that he has no stake in. No words are spoken and Genji looks away after a while, propping Zenyatta better on his arms, mindful of his injuries.

He stands up straight, says nothing, and after a brief, infernal silence Genji turns away and with quiet, quick steps disappears into the darkness. He sees the flickering pale blue lights turn his way before the shadows swallow them, and he gathers the last arrow from the wall, shoulders his bow and makes it away just as the sirens fill the air too loud, too close.

Half a city away he shouts out the frustration inside his head all sound and fury, kicks the wall like a child having a tantrum, feels remorse and things he does not want to feel and sees nine small circular lights flicker lazily, pale blue, familiar, wrapping his heart in an unwanted ache that will not go. He forces an uneasy calm upon the storm raging inside and carries on.

 

 

Through the throat, the cranium, the heart, the arm, the leg, a silent prayer to the dragon for they are sated again and he carries out his objectives flawlessly, efficient like he's been trained to, not a single arrow wasted. This is not Overwatch business, this is just something he picked up, for someone still holding respect for the (real) Shimada clan and what they do (used to do) and more than happy to let him do the dirty work, which he does, because it is the only thing he is good at; knows how to do.

He hasn't been back to Overwatch. The summons from Winston remain unanswered and he hides near Hanamura, keeping an eye on what used to be his to-be empire, now a nest of petty criminals riding out the last echoes of what was once great. He doesn't care that much. He makes pinpoint strikes against them, a ghost in the night, terror strewn in his wake, like the last vengeful spirit of what remains of the Shimada. He hates to see it all in ruin, but he would be more loath to resume his place as the head of what little is left now: a pointless final grasp for misplaced glory.

He does not expect a presence in his small hideout in one of the shop attics he has taken as a home-as-good-as-any-other, but the sudden peaceful aura and the now-bright pale blue lights make him lower his bow, draw in his leg from battle stance to a defensive one. Part of him wants to run, that cascade of emotions from weeks ago settling as a horrible ache to the bottom of his ribcage and he still does not want to process any of this, those brief feelings he has never felt before. Worry. Jealousy. Fear.

Guilt, at least, he is familiar with.

Affection, relief; not so much. Not like this.

The spheres around the omnic rotate slowly again, he defies gravity, there is no slag-edged hole: he seems whole, and he feels the familiar warmth envelop him briefly as Zenyatta's powers reach out to him in greeting, at the same time soothing the ugliness lurking behind his eyes.

"What is it?" he asks tersely, no tact as usual.

"The conflict within you is intriguing," Zenyatta replies.

"Intriguing," he repeats tonelessly. What is he: some sort of experiment for this person who's taken inexplicable interest in human affairs?

"You do not know what you want," Zenyatta continues and before he can carry on with the irritatingly spot-on observations, he interrupts him:

"You are alright?"

"Yes, I am fixed," Zenyatta replies without missing a beat, hovers his hand briefly over the spot where the hole was, his fingers curling slightly. He wonders if Zenyatta feels pain. "Only hardware; easy to replace."

"Software would not be?" he carries on with the small-talk, trying to avoid the inevitable.

"I would not be myself, I'm afraid," Zenyatta replies. "Not fully, in any case."

So he _can_ die. The thought is cold and unwelcome.

There's silence and he lights up the lanterns and candles: prefers them to electricity he has not bothered to wire to the naked lightbulbs in the room. Zenyatta looks around him, as if giving the small attic of a room with only the bare necessities needed for living without a single personal touch a once-over, those intricate hands neatly in his lap as he hovers in place.

"This place tells a lot about you," Zenyatta observes, and he supposes Zenyatta is right: there is not much to him either; everything personal either discarded or well-hidden elsewhere. "A lot more than your brother was ever willing to divulge."

"I would appreciate it you did not discuss me with my brother," he replies coldly.

"Oh, he avoids the subject. I, however, am curious," Zenyatta replies with a quizzical tilt of his head.

"I cannot imagine why."

"Like I said: intriguing. You and your brother are more alike than either is willing to admit. Or realize?" Zenyatta tilts his head again. "Yet the differences are where the intrigue lies."

"I am sorry," he says hurriedly to finally steer the subject away from wherever scary place it is going. Now that the lights are on the room is bathed in warm tones; the flames flickering gently in the cool late-winter breeze that bites in through the old wooden walls. He hears wind chimes ring softly somewhere outside. He is not used to apologies either, but it is better than the alternatives. He busies himself with his small hot plate to heat up some sake.

Zenyatta notices the awkwardness and chuckles quietly, a strange sound with the resonating, toneless edge, but somehow he can still tell that the good-natured amusement is genuine. "There is no need, I do not hold you responsible in any way. You found me and comforted me: that alone is worth a thank you."

"But my brother…"

"Would have taken care of everything no matter what had happened," Zenyatta replies matter-of-factly. "He would have been there had you not."

He looks away, the jealousy an ugly Eldritch horror gnawing at whatever it is that's in his chest still.

"There is no need for that," Zenyatta says, the toneless voice suddenly markedly softer. "He is my student, I am his master. He is loved and very dear to me. What we share is unique. I offered to be your friend: if I remember correctly you chose not to accept."

He looks away, hands balling into fists, the anger slowly overcoming everything else. Maybe there would be no need for any of this, but blinded by honor, by his own shortcomings, he did not see.

"What do you want with me?" he barks out, unable to stop his temper from flaring, like the dragon snapping at prey. "I killed my brother, your loved student. You should hate me."

Zenyatta spreads his arms, as if embracing the air, the spheres around him rotating faster for a moment. The center of the world, bright and blinding and beautiful in some way he lacks the words to describe and it resonates in his chest, vibrations like painful slow lightning shooting through his veins from where his heart should be.

"Hate is pointless, discordant without a counterweight to balance it out," Zenyatta says softly without really providing any answers. "What do _you_ want with me?" he then returns the question and who in the world programmed him to be so clever and shrewd, or did he learn it like any other person learns?

He furrows his brow angrily. "Nothing," he lies, the word foul in his mouth, but he's not ready to face the alternatives, the truth: not now, maybe never. "You are important to my brother, I would not wish to see you hurt."

"Yet you are jealous."

"You can believe whatever you want," he snaps and pours the sake. He takes a seat on the tatami, folding his legs under him.

Now Zenyatta tilts his head, betrays uncertainty, and slowly descends to sit in front of him. So relentless; almost rude. He never gave him permission to stay but Zenyatta does not seem to care. "But are you jealous because someone who is not you is part of your brother's life, or because it is I who is part of his?"

He stares back at Zenyatta with what he hopes comes across as derision; that Zenyatta is only guessing, grasping for straws. He has never wished for a companion. He is fine alone. Has always been. And yet.

Zenyatta stretches out a hand, fingers extended, as if beckoning him to take it, and when he speaks his voice is soft, gentle. "Do not mistake my caring for condescension. Speak the word and I will be part of your life or, if you truly so wish, gone from it forever."

He wants to take the hand, feel the cool fingers press gently against his palm again. Why is there affection, where did it come from? Zenyatta's relentlessness? His gentle nature, his wisdom, the understanding? His heart swells, he feels trapped like an animal in the small room that is suddenly strange and not familiar at all, with Zenyatta as the sun at the zenith of his world and when you walk in his light you cast no shadow.

"I wish I could share this sake with you," he replies almost gingerly after a silence drawn out for much too long.

"As do I," Zenyatta replies softly.

There is another silence, very long, not entirely comfortable. Finally, sipping at the sake (it barely warms), he speaks: "I regret what I had to do to my brother. I believed him gone, I had accepted it and learned to live with the guilt of something I, at the time, believed had been a necessity."

"He knows," Zenyatta says.

"His coming back is something I have not accepted. It is a ghost that haunts me, a ghost I _don't know_."

"He is your brother."

"In name, in blood, yes; but I do not recognize him."

There is a pregnant pause and there is a strange shift in the tone of Zenyatta's voice when he speaks again: "You are against omnics." It is yet another observation, not a guess.

He remains quiet, eyes locked at whatever optical sensors hide inside Zenyatta's slits of eye sockets (he briefly wonders how Zenyatta must see the world: is it just a series of zeroes and ones, processed photographs; or does he see like a human?) and ready to take the blow if it is to come. No, he does not like omnics, he is old enough to remember the Omnic Crisis, but he does not hate them either. He's completely ambivalent, but he certainly does not like the idea of replacing humanity with machinery, although now, for the first time, with Zenyatta looking at him through the mask he cannot read, he thinks maybe it also goes the other way around: replacing machinery with humanity. The group Zenyatta belongs (belonged?) to believes that omnics have _souls,_ do they not?

"He is human," Zenyatta says quietly.

"It is not just that," he says. "It is not just the way he looks I do not recognize."

"Ah. He has changed a lot. Have you not, at all?"

"Shouldn't you know?"

"Like I said, he avoids the subject." Zenyatta shrugs: an awfully human gesture that immediately makes him see briefly past the mask.

He has nothing to say, however. He knows nothing has changed except the sense of duty has turned into frustration and the guilt has made him jaded and self-loathing; a scavenger for every morsel of personal honor he can gather. He is more withdrawn and excluded from everything except the heavy burden that is his alone to bear.

Zenyatta offers his hand again although there is distance between them: way too far for him to reach. "I wish to know more about you, Hanzo Shimada. Let me heal that which gnaws at you; turn the guilt into forgiveness, your anger into peacefulness."

He sighs, closing his eyes.

"Let me into your deepest thoughts, share with me things you haven't shared with anyone before."

"Why? And do not say 'intrigue', it is insulting," he says, voice like steel.

"It is what I wish for," Zenyatta replies, curls the fingers of his outstretched hand slowly into a loose fist and brings it to his chest. "It is selfish of me, but I wish to be part of your life. I want to offer my friendship."

He feels a shiver travel through him, first cool but turning into liquid heat, rushing to fill his veins.  A hunger stirs: not like the one he experiences when he kills, but something entirely different, something pure and bright and very painful. Does Zenyatta even understand what he's bringing to life: like rising sun would wake things from their slumber?

"In what capacity?" he asks, slightly choked.

He sees Zenyatta hesitate; turn his head away briefly: yet another glimpse past the mask, and what is revealed bit by bit is more human than he could have ever imagined. "I," he begins and then actually seems at a loss for words. "In whatever capacity you would allow. Say the word and I will be gone: like I said, I do not wish to intrude if being left alone is truly what you wish."

"Do not leave," he finds himself saying, slowly rising to his feet and taking a couple of hesitant steps towards Zenyatta, carefully stepping over his half-empty cup of sake. Zenyatta looks up at him and again he wonders what the omnic sees. A broken but driven embittered man everyone else does? A murderer? Something else entirely?

He sits down in front of Zenyatta and after a short silence Zenyatta reaches out his hand again and softly touches his cheek. His fingers are cool like he remembered from holding that hand briefly that one night, and his touches full of acknowledgment that they must not be very comfortable against skin. It is the warmth of Zenyatta's strange powers that wraps around him then, Zenyatta's fingers a conduit for a myriad of sensations that bring emotions in their wake.

He doesn't mind. There is liquid fire in his veins.

"Why do you not let anyone see this?" Zenyatta asks rather quizzically without specifying at all. He asks for clarification, and Zenyatta's fingers trail down his cheek before he brings his hand back to his lap.

"You," Zenyatta replies simply.

"It is rather an ugly sight," he says.

"It is beautiful," Zenyatta says without giving pause. "Fractured, but beautiful."

"You might be the only one who sees," he says, slightly taken aback and wishing to feel Zenyatta's strangely warming touch again. He doesn't dare to touch: keeps his hands balled into fists on his thighs.

"Or are am I the only one you have allowed to see?"

He draws in a breath, (like he would when he primes his bow and takes aim,) and carefully, past the slowly swirling spheres, brings his hand to touch Zenyatta's face, that damnable mask he thinks might hide something much more beautiful than whatever Zenyatta thinks he sees in him. The alloy is cool and it feels strange to touch something that is not really alive but still very much self-aware; something that feels and thinks and only wears a somewhat human form to obfuscate the machinery within. Strangely enough Zenyatta gives a slight start at the touch, as if it was unexpected. Soon however the spheres around him spread out to become satellites for them both: rotating around and around, and he feels the warmth again. He traces his fingers over the slightly scuffed edges of Zenyatta's jaw and then pulls away his hand, curling it into a fist again, the tips of his fingers tingling.

He does not know where this will lead, but fact of the matter is, with Zenyatta he feels like he's being slowly mended from the inside. Not because of the warmth, or the affection blossoming in his chest, but because for the first time in a very long time he feels like he can trust. Maybe it is the first step towards peacefulness and feeling whole again; towards acceptance and love.

There is a smile in the tone of Zenyatta's voice when he speaks: "I feel happiness."

He looks down: doesn't know what exactly it is that he feels except that it is new and overwhelming and somehow painful.

Zenyatta leans forward, places his forehead against his. "You will, too, in time."

There is a brief moment when everything gets brighter again, blindingly so, like there is actually a sun in the room and past Zenyatta he sees a thin stretch of red and then a flicker of gold; phantom arms rushing to embrace him and wrap him in loving warmth. He hears a heartbeat, maybe his own, maybe Zenyatta's, maybe that of the world, and as soon as it began it all fades away, leaving in its wake something like a soft rapidly disappearing sound of wind chimes.

He breathes out, almost exhausted, having realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time during the strange phenomenon and he hears Zenyatta chuckle, their foreheads still together, Zenyatta's hands now in his, his intricate hands suddenly warm.

"I will walk this path with you," Zenyatta says softly, holds his hands.

"I would have no other," he says and Zenyatta chuckles again.

The peaceful sound of wind chimes rings in the distance but he doesn't feel the chill bite through the walls anymore.


	2. Two

He does not exactly know what turn his previously lonely path has taken, only that his loneliness has dwindled into moments of solitude and silence when he wanders somewhere and finds himself inexplicably missing something he never before did. Part of him feels slightly irritated he cannot enjoy solitude like he used to; part of him doesn't want to think back to it at all and part of him conjures up the blindingly bright mental image of Zenyatta with a smile that is not on his face, the faint sound of wind chimes, hand stretched out towards him, beckoning him to take it. Cool phantom fingers tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

So close to happiness.

However, Zenyatta is not there. Zenyatta is in his thoughts, thoughts that make his throat tighten and heart beat an unfamiliar rhythm: thoughts that awaken a sense of longing and ennui, and he finds himself _missing_ the omnic in the cool nights on that attic. He understands that they _are_ on different paths: Zenyatta wants to see and learn and with Overwatch he can help and he supposes there is Genji as well. He feels increasingly like he doesn't belong with Overwatch, so he stays in Hanamura (which is very unbecoming of him since he's not exactly used to staying in one place for long, especially one so close to _home_ ) and finds himself suddenly aimless with Zenyatta's words ringing empty in his ears. Promises warm only so much, thoughts of companionship and sharing, and for the first time in a very long while he feels like he is actually in need of guidance without having anyone around to guide him.

So he just lets strangers give him direction and he lets his arrows sing, the dragon roar; turns the aimlessness into taking aim at his targets and drowns half of himself in work and the other half in sake like he often does.

It has been weeks since the night he found Zenyatta in his small room of an attic and they shared something he hadn't shared with anyone before, accepted the companionship offered and felt the affection returned. He woke up alone thinking whether or not he dreamed it all up until he found a beautifully hand-written message next to his futon, next to the empty cup of sake, about how urgency forced Zenyatta to leave against his will, but that he will return.

He hasn't. The plum trees are in full bloom.

He has been lost, feeling forsaken and like is his wont, let the feelings fester and become anger. Then he has drained it into spirits until he's numb all over and nothing can touch him.

Anger is the first thing he feels when he wakes up one night, hours before dawn, the sake he drank before settling for sleep still making the world spin slightly, and finds Zenyatta in the room, sitting on the tatami with his back against the wall, the spheres rotating slowly in a weird formation that accommodate the wall behind his back, hands stretched out along his thighs and fingers drawn into one of the meditative signs he's seen before. What even is the faith he follows? It sounds a lot like some sort of Buddhism, but he is quite certain the Shambali omnics have their own interpretation of the faith. He's not a religious man, not really, but he finds himself curious about what is it that Zenyatta believes in; what exactly helped his brother accept everything that happened.

Zenyatta's quiet, inert; doesn't seem to notice him crawl up from under his myriad of old blankets that fail at keeping him warm, eyes full of fury, tips of his prematurely graying hair touching his shoulders.

And as he watches Zenyatta meditate quietly his anger drains as quickly as it had risen, the dragon's roar only an echo, and relief and affection rush in to fill the void it left behind, and it's filled to the brim. He watches Zenyatta for a moment longer (he cannot sleep, can he?) and then scampers up from his futon and across the room, pulling his yukata tighter around him to shield from the worsening cold.

He settles down next to Zenyatta, pulls his legs against his chest and gently pokes a sphere or two out of the way to hesitantly lean his head against Zenyatta's shoulder. Cold, literally. It amuses him for a moment, but then the warmth rushes in, the spheres lighting up briefly as they change their course to rotate around them both, and he presses flush against Zenyatta's side, seeking the warmth he's missed; the companionship he was promised. He feels the anger there still, how he was left alone right after he thought things would change: how _he_ could begin to change with the help of someone who actually seemed to care. Part of him wants to push Zenyatta away: drive him out of his life. Part of him wants to hang on for dear life.

"I am sorry," Zenyatta says quietly, puts careful emphasis on every single word.

"It does not matter, you are here again," he mutters somewhat gingerly, shuts his eyes. Why talk?

"I can sense the anger," Zenyatta points out.

"So you must sense everything else too."

"Doubt, frustration, betrayal," Zenyatta lists quietly.

"I trusted you knew what you got into. Despite the similarities you insist are there you know that I am _not_ my brother," he says, feeling remorseful suddenly. He does not want to push his guilt onto Zenyatta: Zenyatta is good and he does not deserve to feel bad because _he_ is an awful human being and a terrible work in progress in several complicated ways. His brother might have always been more headstrong, more hedonistic and stuck in his own ways, but he was also a lot younger then. He has lived twenty years with the guilt, becoming more lonesome the more years pass until he had stripped everything but bare necessities from his life. He has also never cared about basic kindness, caring or love, whereas Genji indulged in those and hard though it must have been, turning Genji away from his self-destructive path had to have been easier than it would ever be to turn him. Especially if the one coaxing Genji towards change was Zenyatta, who basically radiates compassion and kindness and understanding.

The jealousy stings again, an evil cold spike through his chest.

"I admit I… did not realize how much it would hurt," Zenyatta replies eventually. "I let you down, for that I am sorry."

"You had to go, I do not hold it against you," he says and it comes out as dismissive.

"Your loneliness is heartbreaking."

"I am not some charity."

"So is your anger."

"Then leave." He lifts his head and looks at Zenyatta, a horrible hollow feeling in his chest. He couldn't do this right either, could he?

Zenyatta turns his head towards him and moves slowly, raises a hand to brush sleep-messed hair away from his face, fingers tracing a cheekbone. "I cannot even imagine how much you hurt," he says quietly, "and I wish that you didn't." He lowers his hand and puts it on his chest, above his heart. "There are things pure and beautiful buried in your heart and I only aided in burying them deeper. I promised you things and hurried to break those promises."

He glances at Zenyatta, sort of hopes they could just share a silence, the warmth of Zenyatta's powers, his head on Zenyatta's shoulder. Quiet, picture perfect, uncomplicated. It is not to be, he is much too complicated, and Zenyatta, in all his wisdom, too naïve. He has come to understand that despite being wise way beyond his years Zenyatta is in reality very young, or very _new,_ and does not always understand the intricacies or nuances of emotions. Self-awareness is not something the omnics always had, but now they learn.

Also he cannot advance on his path in silence.

"Would you still accept me?" Zenyatta asks, almost shy.

"Would you still be here if I didn't?" he replies, still against Zenyatta's side, basking in the warmth he missed so, next to this… _person_ he missed so much that yes, it awoke all the ugly feelings, anger and doubts and frustration. And he would not give _that_ away for anything. He wants to miss someone; have someone to come back to from dark places. Someone who would extend a hand to pull him back to light.

"Relief, affection, hope," Zenyatta lists again, curls his fingers against his chest, then straightens the collar of his yukata: an awfully human gesture, something he would have imagined passed Zenyatta's powers of observation. But no, there he is, straightening the fabric, pulling it straight properly over his shoulder.

"Need," Zenyatta says.

He feels slightly uncomfortable at that.

"I would stay for as long as you wanted," Zenyatta offers.

"That is exactly as long as you want to," he replies, takes Zenyatta's hand still straightening distractingly his yukata, and leans his head against his shoulder again. "I do not want to keep you from the things you need and want to do for yourself. From my brother. From helping others."

"Thank you," Zenyatta says, nudges the top of his head with his cheek. "For understanding."

He just grumbles something in reply, closing his eyes. Zenyatta nudges him again gently and settles then, only the calming thrum of his whatever systems rumbling gently and quietly through his chassis, resonating against his cheek.

 

 

Zenyatta stays with him. There isn't much they share: silences, each more comfortable than the last, occasional ventures outside (he does not dare show his face much during daylight hours), several attempts at conversation which mostly end up with him falling silent and refusing to speak of whatever the topic had been because they always invariably end up being about him or his brother. Zenyatta remains patient and doesn't pry or urge, but he can sense hidden frustration in the silence. He feels remorse afterwards but cannot bring himself to apologize or tell Zenyatta that he does not do this talking about himself or his issues thing well at all; he has never had the reason to do so before and he's not sure if it's even being of any help now. He wishes it would help. He wishes he would get to see Zenyatta be proud of him, not just silently accepting that he is difficult and letting him advance in his own terms, at his own speed.

Zenyatta even talks him over into accepting one of the missions Overwatch keeps offering him, and they go together, ending up working with a usual ragtag crew of Overwatch recruits he still doesn't know very well (Zenyatta on the other hand seems to know everyone, or at least greets them with familiarity and receives – in most cases – similar familiar greetings in return). It goes well enough and when Zenyatta asks, experimentally, if they could do that again when another suitable mission is offered, he lets out a dismissive grunt that is essentially saying 'yes'. Zenyatta seems happy about it, in any case.

Of course he kept a keen eye on Zenyatta during the mission, concentrating on him more than his targets at times: he wouldn't be able to bear to watch Zenyatta get injured – or worse – again.

The sakura are in full bloom in Hanamura when his brother shows up, uninvited, unexpected, a regular yukata over his cybernetic suit to likely make him stand out a little less in a crowd. Mostly he just looks like a strangely-designed omnic. Genji showing up makes Zenyatta very happy (a lot happier than he thinks he's ever seen him) and makes him feel like staying in his attic of a room drinking himself into stupor. He still does not know how to even begin to deal with his brother being alive and _forgiving_ after all these years and yes, learning to deal with it is part of what Zenyatta is probably hoping to accomplish with their strange companionship and all the conversations with the topics drawn to _him_ , but for now it feels somehow abhorrent. It awakes enormous guilt, the feeling of not being worthy of being forgiven something unforgivable; of not accepting the Genji of now as truth. Dr. Ziegler had come to him during one of the first missions he took part in with Overwatch, asked him if he was Genji Shimada's brother, and explained then in a very patient and gentle way (she must have stellar bedside manner) that she was mostly responsible for the state-of-the-art cybernetics that had saved Genji's life and how she was happy that Genji has finally come to accept his dual nature as half-man half-machine, clearly expecting him to be glad about it as well, but he had, much to his chagrin, nothing to say to her, so he had just nodded and left. He doubted she knew that _he_ was the one who had killed Genji. He has steered clear of her since, only aware of the suspicious, almost sorrowful way she looks at him whenever they were at the same place at the same time.

The thing is, he can barely look straight at Genji without wishing to die himself or kill him again, and seeing Zenyatta cheer up remarkably at the sight of him only twists the knife in the wound. He can never make Zenyatta happy: he can only make him apologize, forge a silence between them and make him frustrated although Zenyatta fights to not let it show. Genji makes the lights on his spheres shine brighter, his back straighter, something happy like little bells in the tone of his voice and he _laughs_ at something Genji says, thanks him eagerly for the dumb stuffed onion toy Genji likely got for him from the arcade on his way there.

He feels like an outsider in the tiny attic that is supposed to be his, sitting on his legs on his futon and watching student and master, friends, reunite again after time spent apart. Zenyatta turns briefly to him with the stupid cute onion toy and asks if he can leave it there while he and Genji go walk around the town. Before he can even say anything Genji interjects that Hanzo will come with them: he cannot have anything better to do and from the looks of it fresh air should do him good; all in good-natured jest that is unfortunately _very much_ like the Genji he remembers and therefore makes the guilt surge stronger.

So they leave for a walk – or a hover, in Zenyatta's case – and traverse the cobble-stoned narrow streets of Hanamura, weaving through the early-afternoon crowds of people on their lunch breaks. He walks a couple of paces after his brother and Zenyatta, gradually slowing down and letting people pass between them, not really wanting to hear his brother tell Zenyatta about Hanamura and pointing out the sights, the ramen place that used to be his favorite, how much he used to go to the arcade and all the other things he's familiar with in the ordinary small town bustling with ordinary people despite the criminal empire hidden behind walls right next to it. He realizes he's never told Zenyatta anything about Hanamura, about _his_ favorite ramen place or the hiding places he found to escape for a while and read his favorite books in peace when he was just a child and before he realized that his family, his _duty_ , was more important than selfish indulgences and the walls of Shimada castle became the boundaries of his world. Genji was always out more than he was, Genji always _broke the rules more_. Genji saw more of the world first. Genji experienced things while _he_ learned to be a weapon, which was something Genji only learned later to dismantle the family that had wanted him dead for wanting something for himself.

He is still nothing but a weapon for others to wield while Genji – a weapon he, in the end, helped to forge by doing the unthinkable – has a purpose and a will of his own and he always kept his integrity: he does what he wants to and not what someone else does.

Listening to his brother talk, his voice getting quieter and quieter the farther behind he falls, makes him regret a lot of things. He's been a terrible host to a person he does not hate being around. He is jealous, so jealous it eats him up inside. He has no purpose in life if no one wants someone killed. That purpose took him far enough to kill his brother, who is not dead and bears no ill will, but he cannot accept it because it would mean that he is not to blame for everything: years of guilt, the fall of his family, everything he is now. Accepting Genji would mean accepting himself, _forgiving_ himself, and he is way beyond redemption.

He catches up when his brother pulls out his phone to take a picture of himself and Zenyatta. Zenyatta chuckles happily when Genji shows him the picture, and they continue walking while he falls behind again and eventually stops. People pass him by, don't recognize him, although anyone could be an assassin out to get him but for now he doesn't care and if the blow is to come he will take it. He turns around, numb all over, and returns to the attic, where he heats up the sake and drinks until he forgets why he started.

"You need to stop," Zenyatta says from the doorway. He didn't hear him come in. No wonder, his head is buzzing. Next Zenyatta is kneeling in front of him, gently prying the jug away from him (he gave up on heating it a while ago) and he feels warm again as Zenyatta's spheres make a quick rotation around him as well. Next a piece of paper, a printed photograph, is shoved at him and it's the one Genji took earlier of him and Zenyatta, and he's in the background, looking vaguely towards the viewfinder and looking like… he doesn't belong in the photograph at all. Does he always look so off-putting and miserably angry? He doesn't like the way he looks.

"Why?" Zenyatta asks, holding the photograph for him to see. "You could have joined us, we would have enjoyed it. Why do you insist on this distance?"

"I didn't want to interfere," he says and looks away from the photograph. It's making him upset. "I shouldn't have come in the first place."

"You were invited," Zenyatta points out. "Genji doesn't understand why you are like this. I do not, either."

He remains quiet. It's not the kind of conversation he wants to have while drunk. "Where is my brother, anyway?"

"He left," Zenyatta replies. "Only came to stay for the day. He works much more closely with Overwatch. He hopes that you would, too."

"Did you have fun?" he asks, doesn't mean to sound derisive and scathing but it comes out that way still.

Zenyatta ignores the derision. "Yes. It is always nice to see him. Nicer still to spend time with him and talk. I was glad I got to see the town, as well."

"Well, good," he says flatly.

"I just wish you would have been the one to show me around," Zenyatta says softly.

"This was always more of his place than mine," he mutters.

"Yet you are here and he is not," Zenyatta says and then raises a hand, cups his cheek and he has to concentrate very hard not to lean against the touch. "Why do you insist on this distance?" Zenyatta repeats a question from earlier. "I can touch you but you are not here."

"I am not used to," he starts, takes Zenyatta by the wrist and pushes his hand away, "having anyone around. When I chose my path I knew it to be lonely one. I did not anticipate someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Someone," he says and looks away still, persistently, "who would want to _stay_."

"What will it take to convince you that your path is not that of solitude anymore?"

"I wish I knew."

Zenyatta looks at him for a moment in silence, then raises his arms and with surprisingly deft fingers opens the knot tying his hair, lets it fall free over his shoulders while he takes the ribbon and worries it softly in his fingers. "You ought to rest," he says.

"Will you be gone again?"

"Why would I?"

"Others tend to," he replies and, much to his own surprise as well, lies down on the futon, figuring sleep will do him good at this point.

"Hanzo," Zenyatta says softly, touches his cheek, "I wish you would tell me what makes you mistrust me so."

"It is not you, it is everyone else," he says, closing his eyes.

"So believe already that I am different. I will be here, for you, with you," Zenyatta whispers and he can hear the soft rustle of the tatami as Zenyatta lies down on the floor. On a complete whim he scoots closer to the wall, to the other edge of the futon, and after a moment Zenyatta takes the invitation, moving himself on the futon next to him.

"I just wish I could make you happy, like my brother does," he mutters quietly something rather secret: something he will regret saying come morning.

"You do," Zenyatta replies, close. "In a very different way, but you do."

"That, I do not believe."

"If I was unhappy I would not be here," Zenyatta says simply.

There's a brief silence, because he cannot argue the point Zenyatta is making. Being still mostly a logic-driven person Zenyatta definitely would not stay if he had no reason to: if he didn't find something worthwhile about staying. It makes him feel a tiny bit better through the haze in his head.

"Do you even sleep?" he asks with a tiny scoff, wondering if Zenyatta is just accommodating his whims.

" _'Do androids dream of electric sheep?'_ " Zenyatta replies in a sort of playful tone, then chuckles quietly (the sound sends a weird chill down his spine, making him shudder). "No," he continues, serious again. "I power down to run at minimum system requirements."

"How do you know if there is danger?"

"I am perfectly aware of my surroundings," Zenyatta says, sounding amused. "Also, I trust you to keep us safe."

"I wouldn't, not after all the sake."

"I trust you," Zenyatta repeats.

He falls asleep with a faint recollection of Zenyatta's cool hand over his chest, above his heart, and the thought of if Zenyatta can feel his heart beat hard for him.

 

 

 

The morning dawns with a lousy headache and a disgusting taste in his mouth, both of which he's gotten used to, and he's once again glad that the attic room is dim, with the only source of daylight being a small, drafty window giving out to the shop's small inner yard garden. He's suspiciously well-tucked under the comforter and after a while he realizes that Zenyatta is _not_ there, and the hangover gets approximately hundred times worse when his mood plummets as well. The stupid stuffed onion toy stares at him happily from the small desk on the other side of the room and he scoffs loudly, disappointed at himself beyond reason, and he angrily covers his face with his arm.

"Stupid," he mutters at himself, slowly recalling the previous day and ending up with the conclusion that it is not surprising at all that Zenyatta is not there. Who would? He cannot do right by anyone. He is a drag, impossible; something Zenyatta should not need to deal with at all.

"Oh, you are awake," comes from the doorway and Zenyatta hovers inside with a small tray in his arms. "The kindly woman in the shop downstairs gave me these. I do not speak Japanese as well as I would like to, but I understood she is quite worried about her upstairs tenant."

"Me?" he asks, baffled, and lifts his head just enough to peek properly at Zenyatta, who hovers down to sit and places the tray down on the tatami. There is basic breakfast, a pitcher of water; from the looks and smell of it slices of freshly baked bread. "Why would she?"

"I can only guess," Zenyatta says, sounding somehow wonderfully carefree. "But this was nice of her, yes? I went down to pick up something for you to eat – you have nothing here, as usual, I noticed – and she was more than happy to help." He pours him water, then sits up straight, tilting his head slightly. "Are you feeling better?"

He's not sure if Zenyatta's referring to the supposed hangover or his foul mood last night, so he just shrugs ambivalently after dragging himself out of bed. Zenyatta reaches out a hand to smooth down some of his hair: the unexpected, unreserved touch sends a pleasant chill through him. Can Zenyatta observe all this as well, he thinks. Does Zenyatta know how he is starting to feel? He watches Zenyatta thoughtfully: if he knows, at least he does not let it show, but then again it is very difficult to read anything from that damned mask, and Zenyatta is annoyingly good at masking the tone of his voice as well. He remembers the toneless calm they began with. He has come to realize that it was never that, he just didn't know how to listen.

"You mentioned not being that good at Japanese," he says, picking up one of the slices of fresh bread. "Can't you just… download a dictionary and be done with it?"

"Yes," Zenyatta replies, "but I rather enjoy learning. Genji taught me some, the rest I read from books back with the Shambali."

"Books," he says, finding it somehow amusing someone would read an actual printed book these days. Especially an omnic. He isn't exactly surprised that Zenyatta would much rather learn on his own, though: it fits well with everything he knows about Zenyatta and his hands-on approach to many a thing. Zenyatta tilts his head at him questioningly and is probably about to ask why the derision towards books, but he hurries to continue: "We could… pick up from where you left off with my brother."

The room seems to get brighter. "I would love that," Zenyatta says happily.

He hides a smile behind his mug of water and continues eating the breakfast in silence. He's been conversing in English with Zenyatta all this time: he's actually a tiny bit afraid his Japanese might have gotten a bit rusty during the time he has spent traveling the world and he's perfectly fluent in English either way. But if Zenyatta enjoyed learning, he would be happy to teach, and recall some of his own skills as well.

He eats and Zenyatta keeps company in silence, his head courteously turned slightly away so that it wouldn't look like he was staring. His spheres keep at their steady rotation. He is so unexpected, so beautiful in the dim late-morning light filtering in through the dirty small window, in the midst of all tiny dust mites like specks of gold scattered around him, reflections of light thrown here and there from the shiny spheres. How did it come to this, he finds himself wondering; how did he end up falling for this most unexpected person?

"You do not need… nutrition?" he asks, just to fill in the silence he can feel grow uncomfortable the longer he dwells on his thoughts.

"No, not like you do," Zenyatta replies softly, turning back to face him. "I recharge every few months, depending on my power consumption."

"You don't think you're missing out?"

"Not particularly, there are many other things I find pleasure in."

"Like learning?"

"Like learning," Zenyatta echoes with smile in his voice. "And this."

He quirks an eyebrow questioningly.

"Engaging in conversation with you; finding you in such a good mood after last night," Zenyatta replies. "There is no distance, I can feel you closer: shut-off as always but ever-so tentatively opening up. Do you now believe you are perfectly capable of making me happy, and even without doing anything more special than just talking with me?"

He's quite rendered speechless and rather embarrassed by being reminded of telling Zenyatta about his grievance regarding the whole happiness issue, so in the end he just scoffs in the gruff manner he cannot help, and hides the slight fluster in finishing the breakfast.

Zenyatta chuckles. "We are headed the right way, Hanzo Shimada," he says.


	3. Three

He never takes his eyes off his targets before they are dead. Even if he knows he's hidden, unknown to whoever it is he's staring down the arrow's shaft at, predicting every movement with disciplined ease, he _never_ takes his eyes off.

So of course the one time he does so, it turns out costly. He is lining up a shot to take down one of the bodyguards, a bit more dangerously in plain sight than he'd like, but no one ever looks up, so he trusts he can drop his targets before they realize where the shots are coming from. Arrow notched and string pulled taut he's already drawn breath to keep his aim steady when he hears a disturbingly familiar noise, a clang and a surprised yelp and _Zenyatta_. Before really even thinking much further he has spun around to seek out the source of the sounds that should not be, fixing his aim on one of the patrolling guards doing their rounds around the facility, facing down the omnic he _knows_ can hold his own but whatever protective sense he possesses – the same one that guilts him about his brother and for a good reason too – tells him that Zenyatta comes first, always first, do not hesitate, do not question. He sends the arrow flying before the guard gets in another shot – the first blocked by one Zenyatta's spheres, apparently – and sees Zenyatta turn quickly at him, making one of those quick elaborate signs he draws into the air with his hands when he sends his spheres to do whatever tasks needed and he sees one sphere dart towards him just as he feels pain pierce his left shoulder. The pain's incapacitating, tearing through, and he drops his bow, fingers suddenly numb. He feels his legs give in and then the ground is getting a lot closer but before he connects a wonderfully numbing void devours him and there is nothing.

When he comes to his entire world is made out of throbbing pain. There's small soothing warmth gathered in his chest, but everything else is just a thousand different kinds of pain from the dull ache in his face to the sharp piercing headache to the stiffness in his neck, and from his shoulder the agony radiates down his arm; even reaches out to tease at the warmth in his chest. The deliberately low lighting hurts his eyes and even the thought of trying to move feels like an impossible endeavor, so he just closes his eyes without having gotten a good look at his dim-lit surroundings. He groans quietly, a sound that tears its way violently through his parched throat.

With that a remarkably strong feeling of warmth washes over him, like a dampening blanket over the ache, and although it's suddenly bright inside his eyelids it doesn't hurt his eyes. The warmth remains there, slowly making him feel less like he wants to die and more like moving wouldn't be completely impossible task. He opens his eyes and he doesn't recognize the utterly unremarkable room with minimal furnishings and miserably gray concrete walls. Zenyatta hovers close by and one of his lit-up spheres rotates slowly above _him_ and he guesses that's where the warmth is coming from. He has no idea what kind of powers Zenyatta exactly wields: are there electromagnetically controlled tissue-repairing and analgesic-pumping nanomachines housed inside the spheres or is it something he wouldn't believe even if Zenyatta told him? Whatever it is, he knows that Zenyatta, on top of being intelligent and more understanding of his various issues than he has any right to be, is also a healer. Not like Dr. Ziegler or any other doctor he's ever been to in his life, but something fundamentally different.

He groans again, the warmth wrestling itself to the heart of the ache.

"Please, do not try to move," Zenyatta says softly, tone slightly worried. "You are very injured."

"How?" he asks. Yes, he remembers he made a mistake and took a bullet in the shoulder and there's a vague memory of falling down but never hitting the ground, and all that raises another question, more important one: "Are _you_ alright?"

There is such a long, uncharacteristic pause he has to turn his head even against Zenyatta's plea just to see him better. Agonizing pain pierces through his neck in protest at the movement, through the healing warmth. It's not like he can see anything through that mask Zenyatta wears, but somehow it still helps to pinpoint what Zenyatta is feeling when he eventually speaks: "You should not worry about me, I am fine." He's confused, head tilted slightly and one hand held in the air in a loose fist, as if he wants to reach out for him. It is always weird to see him hesitate: an artificial intelligence having second thoughts is a bemusing idea.

"Good," he says and closes his eyes, settling down to concentrate on not feeling like he's about to die.

"Your priorities are strange," Zenyatta says after a while. "You are very injured, I told you so. Your neck was broken by the fall. Why would you worry over me? Thanks to you I am fine, although I feel slightly uncomfortable you would abandon your own mission for my sake: I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

He's silent for a while, now experiencing different kind of warmth spreading over his cheeks. "I wanted to make sure," he says dismissively

"I appreciate what you did, do not misunderstand," Zenyatta says softly. "But do not put yourself into unnecessary danger because of me."

"I always will," he replies and looks at Zenyatta again, persistently through the pain. "I do not _ever_ want to see you broken like that one time."

"Ah," Zenyatta says and falls silent.

He closes his eyes again against the light, a brief beautiful string of red amidst all the gold, and lets the warmth wash away the pain. A broken neck? That is a first. He wonders how he is even alive. A quiet peaceful chime reaches his ears: he's heard it before, when Zenyatta falls deep in thought or into meditation. The sounds soothe much like the warmth does, but not as much as Zenyatta's voice would.

"Where are we?" he asks after a while, quite rudely interrupting Zenyatta despite knowing he must be concentrating on something.

"In one of Overwatch's safehouses in Hong Kong," Zenyatta replies after a while, the chimes disappearing. "You needed medical help: your injuries were outside the scope of my skills in healing and Dr. Ziegler lacked the equipment needed to take care of them. You were taken to a local hospital and released into Dr. Ziegler's custody after the surgery. She entrusted you to me."

He stirs uncomfortably at the knowledge of having been taken to a hospital, and Zenyatta, observant as always, takes notice. "Do not worry: we did not use your real name when you were admitted."

"Thank you," he says, feeling a lot more at ease immediately. It wouldn't do at all if Hanzo Shimada popped up from out of nowhere in Hong Kong of all places: what is left of the Shimada are well-connected throughout eastern Asia. That having been solved, there is still one question left: "The mission?"

"Success. Genji carried out your task. It got messier than anyone anticipated or would have wanted, but it is done."

"I do suppose an assassin falling from the roof must not be the most graceful way to carry out a mission," he mutters and closes his eyes again with a sigh, feeling slightly embarrassed but glad still that at least Zenyatta is alright.

"Do not joke," Zenyatta says firmly, quite surprisingly, and he has to look at the omnic again. "The mission could have gone horribly wrong. Furthermore, you nearly lost your life. Excuse me I do not find the amusement in it."

His eyes widen a bit at Zenyatta's sudden seriousness: he is usually very easy-going and while he might not get every joke, being serious by nature and sometimes, he thinks, he just hasn't been programmed to understand what makes certain things amusing, he is far from humorless. He laughs, even at the black, gallows kind of humor _he_ finds funny, and he loves it when Zenyatta laughs because it means he is enjoying himself. Serious Zenyatta is something that makes him feel small and like he has actually made a mistake.

There is a heavy silence upon them while Zenyatta looks at him and he quickly looks away, _sensing_ the strange sort of _hurt_ in Zenyatta, through the warmth.

"I apologize," he says.

"Do not," Zenyatta says and hovers a tiny bit closer, puts his hand on top of his, "put yourself in danger for my sake. I was rather scared and I did not enjoy it." His hand is warm, not cool like usually, but he thinks it might be because his own hands feel cold. Through the touch comes different kind of warmth, the kind that reaches the marrow of his bones, makes him shudder from something that is not physiological.

"I cannot promise you that: like I said, I do not want to see you hurt either," he says quietly. "I am not sure I knew what to do if that happened."

"In that case I promise to be more careful," Zenyatta says. "If you do the same."

"I promise," he promises easily and Zenyatta curls his fingers around his palm, effectively takes his hand in his.

"The emotions I sense in you now are so different from what I sensed when we first met," Zenyatta says after a while. The chimes are audible again, his hand is in Zenyatta's still: he's still enveloped in mending warmth. "The anger is still there and you have not forgiven yourself, but your thoughts dwell often on things other than guilt."

"Thanks to you," he says because he doesn't know what else to say. How much can Zenyatta _read_ from him? How deep can he reach with his powers of observation? If he _knows_ , does he _understand?_

"I am glad to hear it," Zenyatta replies softly. "Our journey together has been successful, then."

"You be the judge of that," he says, and then a cold thought passes through and he hates how awkward and uncertain he sounds when he voices it: "What will you do when you are done?"

"When I am done?"

"When you are done with… whatever you are trying to accomplish with me."

"I was not aware that friendships have an expiration date," Zenyatta replies almost drily.

He chuckles, would shake his head in amusement if movement didn't make his entire world hurl itself into agony. "I know you are trying to accomplish something."

Zenyatta doesn't deny. "So when you are whole again?"

"That is it?"

"I thought it was obvious," Zenyatta says, sounding confused. "But as to your question, I… have not thought about it. It has not been relevant. I might return to Overwatch and Genji, continue seeing the world, helping people, _while_ remaining your friend if you still accept my friendship. I do know you prefer your solitude."

The last part stings and he flinches involuntarily. However deep Zenyatta sees, he does not see deep enough, or maybe he really just doesn't understand. He won't voice what is in his mind, so instead he just closes his eyes and pretends to settle for rest. "You do what you must."

Zenyatta does not reply, but his fingers around his hand hold on a tiny bit tighter for a second or two.

The moment is awfully fragile and he hates it. Hates that one day Zenyatta will be gone and he cannot do anything to make him stay.

"Would you like to visit Nepal with me?" Zenyatta asks suddenly. "To see the Shambali. After you have recovered, of course. I think I would like to see how my siblings are doing and whether I am welcome in the first place: I have not been there since brother Mondatta…" he trails off, understandably. Yes, he knows all about that particular ugly business. It was all over the news and he overheard Zenyatta and his brother talk about it during one mission in London, a long time ago, way before Zenyatta was part of his life. "I would like that," Zenyatta repeats in conclusion.

He is a bit surprised by the question, but he agrees to the invitation, and there is a smile in Zenyatta's voice when he next speaks. "Thank you."

 

 

 

The Shambali monastery is quiet and peaceful in an almost unnerving way, not the kind that would help him relax and find harmony or any sort of inner peace. Maybe he has the wrong kind of mindset; maybe it's because of the thinly veiled disapproval he can _sense_ radiate from the other members of the Shambali. There are many omnics, most of them dressed like Zenyatta and very similar in appearance, with some humans scattered about wearing a similar garb, and all of them let their gaze brush over Zenyatta before looking adamantly away. In any other circumstances he might have found peace in the beauty of the monastery grounds, covered in pristine snow and surrounded by the majestic peaks of the Himalayas, the architecture of the shrines and lodgings exquisitely archaic and almost Nepalese in nature but not quite. The air is crisp and fresh, completely different from the pollution of everywhere else and the wind that howls past makes him feel strangely alive, although it also makes him shiver under the thicker coat he thankfully chose to wear for this particular excursion.

And colder yet are the looks Zenyatta – and he, in association – receive from locals.

He has to ask Zenyatta what exactly is their problem and he is almost sure Zenyatta would be wearing a sad little smile if he only could, when he speaks.

"Brother Mondatta and I were good friends, but we… disagreed on some fundamental doctrines of the Shambali. I think the discord and the circumstances of my departure is what my siblings remember."

"That is unfair," he says.

"It is not. I chose to follow my own path, they follow that of brother Mondatta's, and, I assume, his successor's. It is as it should be."

"That doesn't sound very harmonious," he points out as they walk through yet another quiet shrine. "I think moderate amount of disagreement makes up perfect balance. The Shambali would be a single-minded _cult_ if no one questioned."

Zenyatta almost stops. "That is… an interesting way to look at things," he says, sounding almost bemused. "I have not considered that, but you are right: without disagreement there would not be balance. I think you just taught me something, Hanzo Shimada."

He thinks he smiles at Zenyatta over his shoulder. Or at least it's as close to a smile he can manage. It's possible nothing changed on his face, he just gave Zenyatta a look. "Suddenly you find I am at balance," he jokes.

"You would find, Hanzo, that for balance you need equal amount of agreement," Zenyatta replies, almost in a dry, wonderfully sarcastic way, and hearing that makes him almost gleeful. He is so happy when Zenyatta actually catches on to his strange sense of humor and plays along as if it's a second nature to him as well. "Nothing but conflict does not balance make."

He chuckles quietly and they continue their walk in peaceful quiet.

Zenyatta can also be _shrewd_ , he notices bitterly when Zenyatta leads him into a small room he immediately recognizes as something very familiar and Zenyatta confirms behind his back that it's the room Genji stayed at during his stay with the Shambali, and still does, when he comes home. It becomes painfully obvious, and confusing, when he takes a better look around.

He ends up picking up an old framed photo, of his brother in his rebellious green-dyed hair, of him hiding behind hair a lot longer than he keeps it now, full black without the gray at the temples, back when the Shimada clan was unbroken and everything was uncomplicated. He didn't look very good in photos even back then, very serious and somehow awkward, bothered to show his face, but he remembers being happy to have a picture taken of him and the baby brother he hoped would fall in line soon but who kept pulling away, near-estranged, their paths dramatically diverged. He is almost shocked to find the photo there. Why? He turns to Zenyatta, as if asking for help, hoping he doesn't look as fragile as he feels.

"He forgave you quickly: he knows you did what you had to do; that in order for you to continue on your path you would have to put an end to his," Zenyatta says, hovering a distance away.

"I _always_ had the _choice,"_ he says thickly, something in his throat. "And I chose to kill my own brother. How can anyone forgive something like that? I knew what I was doing."

"And you knew you were doing wrong."

"It won't unmake it," he says and puts the frame down on the wooden drawer. "Nothing ever will."

"No one is saying you did not do the wrong thing," Zenyatta says. "You might have been the weapon, but you were not the wielder."

"A weapon does not have free will," he barks out and takes a step away from Zenyatta. He wants to run. The room is too small, full of horrors and his guilt is crushing him, but he deserves it: he needs to stay and let it sweep him away. "My brother is very dear to you, I do not _understand_ how you can even look at me like I am not a complete monster."

"A monster would not admit any of the things you have never tried to hide," Zenyatta replies simply. "I was appalled when Genji first told me, but as he came to understand and forgive, so did I. Tell me, what would have happened had you refused to kill him?"

"I would have been killed as well."

"So it was self-preservation. Genji fought, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did not make it easy."

"Do you not see?" Zenyatta says softly and extends his arm, reaches out for him. "No one is taking your guilt, or your willingness to atone away from you. All Genji wants is for you to know that he has forgiven you: he is alive, he might not be the same he was back then, but he does not miss what used to be and has accepted what he is now. He has let go. Now you have to, as well."

"I cannot!" he says through his teeth. The walls are getting closer. "I can _not_ forgive myself for what I did to my _own brother_. I _lost him_ that day, because of my selfishness, and I will never have him back. Forgiving myself would be like admitting I was not at fault; that I did nothing wrong!"

"It is true you will never have back the Genji you used to know. That Genji does not exist. But the one who is here, who wants to be part of your life again is very real and very much alive and he is waiting for you to forgive yourself, like he has forgiven you."

He turns his back to Zenyatta, covers his face with his hand, as if it would help to rein back the anger that is rearing, the dragon awakening. His entire body is like a bowstring pulled taut, stressed to the limit. "You do not understand," he barks, slowly overcome with grief, "what it feels like to put an end to something you love, fully aware that what you are doing is wrong, and living with the burden for two decades!"

"You are right, I do not know," Zenyatta says, and then there are wind chimes in the air, a flash of golden, a whip of red, and he feels Zenyatta press flush against his back. His arms cross over his chest, the sheer unexpectedness and warmth of the embrace almost overcoming everything else as he's taken by surprise and Zenyatta's head is against his shoulder. "But do you not think that is enough? I have not known you for long, Hanzo, but I know that you are not a bad person. You would not feel guilty if you truly did not regret what you did. The person you wronged has forgiven you: the only one putting up a fight is you."

He remains quiet, much too aware of how the sudden closeness is affecting him, making his heart ache on top of the already present hurt, and it is all too much. He does not deserve forgiveness, or someone as good and pure as Zenyatta in his life. He does not deserve whatever Genji is now, either.

"Why do you strive to understand a murderer? Do you not know how much blood I've spilled?!"

"I have taken lives in self-preservation as well," Zenyatta replies. "Genji has taken them in revenge. Do you not think both causes are just?"

"He has not taken my life," he points out.

"He has no reason to break the weapon if he can break those who wielded it," Zenyatta says, tightens his hold, and he can feel Zenyatta's face pressed against his neck, his voice resonating strangely against his skin through the alloy he's made of. "If you could only see, _this_ would be the first step towards becoming whole again."

"I do not deserve…"

"You refuse to understand," Zenyatta speaks against his neck, holding him tight, "that it has nothing to do with being worthy, or unworthy, or even gaining redemption. It is about _acceptance."_

He shakes his head weakly.

"And I accept you, with your faults and flaws, with everything," Zenyatta says, voice quieter, but the light is suddenly brighter in the room and it is not just Zenyatta that embraces him, but everything, the Zenyatta of every moment in time and space, like a room full of golden mirrors. "The Hanzo of now, the Hanzo of then, the Hanzo you will become. All is now. The only thing needed is that you take that step as well."

He steps back, falls against Zenyatta, who holds him tight and doesn't let go. The light is gone, the room dim again, and the familiar ring of wind chimes fades away as cold mountain wind howls past right outside. He is not cold, however, he is very warm, chest overflowing with warmth he is wary of because falling in love with Zenyatta is something he is not sure should be happening at all.

But he cannot stop it. It is as real as the regret, the guilt, the anger, the inability to forgive: like a pure white immaculate spot of snow left inexplicably clean of blood after a horrible massacre.

"Do you understand?" Zenyatta asks. _Strange quick flash of thin stretch of red at the edge of his awareness._

"I will try," he breathes.

Zenyatta lets out a genuinely relieved chuckle, his chassis resonating funnily against his back as the omnic shakes with laughter. "The path is open," Zenyatta whispers, presses his face against his neck, and there is another thing he cannot forgive himself for: he cannot forgive himself for being fool enough to fall in love.

 

 

He gets used to Zenyatta being gone some mornings. He trusts Zenyatta would actually _tell him_ if he were to leave Hanamura for Overwatch business or just decide to finally give up on him, so when there is no note when he wakes up, he can rest easy knowing Zenyatta might not be there, but he is not far. Zenyatta takes strolls on his lonesome: something he wishes he wouldn't do because there is always someone who bears a grudge or two from the Omnic Crisis and it is perhaps not exactly _safe_ for an omnic to be about alone. Sometimes Zenyatta is meditating in the inner yard garden; most of the time he takes a short stroll and finds a peaceful place to meditate the slow, golden-hued morning hours away.

When he wakes before Zenyatta is back, he goes look for him, and if he finds him, he joins him in meditation. He hasn't been good at it for a very long time: all his senses have been trained to be alert, and complete silence makes him twitch at the tiniest of sounds, tilt his head with a furrowed brow towards the sound to figure out where it's coming from, what is it; is it dangerous? He was only ever able to do it when he knew there was no danger, but there hasn't been a moment like that in years, and everything that happened has made him unable to relax.

Zenyatta, instead of scolding him, tries to give him gentle tips about how to let go of the doubts; find himself within, but that makes it even harder because he also hasn't been able to face himself properly in years.

So when he finds it impossible he just sits next to Zenyatta, watches him in peaceful meditation listening to the soft harmonious chimes of his ever-rotating spheres. It _is_ peaceful, he _hopes_ he could just close his eyes and get lost in himself without awakening nightmares and facing things he is still not ready to face.

Usually Zenyatta senses that he's not on the same wavelength with him, slowly descends to sit on the ground instead of hovering a few inches above, and turns his head towards him, initiating conversation.

Usually he asks 'how are you feeling?'

Usually he replies 'wretched' and then there is silence. The chimes, wind, early birds, Hanamura awakening slowly from its slumber. He finds himself missing the sharp clack of the _souzu_ they used to have in the Shimada castle garden when he was a boy.

Where the conversation goes from there varies from day to day, but it is always Zenyatta being way more understanding than he has any right to be, as usual, and him feeling more wretched the more understanding Zenyatta is, his words becoming clipped and eventually venomous to the point he realizes he is being an asshole, and decides to remain silent, at which point Zenyatta would definitely sigh if he were the kind to sigh at lost causes. Zenyatta then hovers back up, stating matter-of-factly that he must be hungry, they should go get something to eat to start the day.

And he follows, feeling certain that today is the day Zenyatta will leave.

He doesn't.

"How did you run into my brother?" he asks one morning, somewhat curious.

Zenyatta tells the story and he regrets asking because Zenyatta just sort of… lights up when he talks about Genji. He is so jealous. He has never wished he could be like his brother but Zenyatta makes him reconsider: hopes someone would get as excited and happy talking about him; being with him. He feels wretched again, looks away, listens to Zenyatta tell him about how he helped Genji to start accepting himself.

"I still do not understand," he says bitterly when there is a pause, "how you do not hate me."

"I think I told you hate is pointless and that I have no reason to hold you in contempt when the person you wronged has already forgiven you. And it doesn't mean that I approve of what you did: it just means that I understand why you did it. Letting go of revenge was one of the first things I taught him, after dismantling what was left of the Shimada did not provide him with the peace of mind he sought."

An ugly thought, fueled by anger and guilt and jealousy crosses his mind. "So this is all your fault."

Zenyatta twitches visibly, as if the words are a slap across his face. When he thinks back to two seconds ago and feels immediate remorse, he thinks he might as well have slapped Zenyatta.

"I have always strove for good," Zenyatta says, his voice very regulated and stiff, almost toneless calm. "I do not regret saving lives that do not deserve death, even if I am hated for it."

Now the remorse is an all-consuming, thick, suffocating feeling in his throat and chest, almost like fear. "I did not mean…"

"Yes, you did."

He falls silent, looks down at the ground, at the fallen cherry blossom petals slowly decomposing into the earth, all that fragile pale pink soon an ugly mush of brown. "I do not _hate_ you for it." He says quietly, hands balling into fists. This meditation is done: he cannot possibly find any kind of peace or harmony here with the remorse and blame and guilt and jealousy like an all-consuming void inside his chest. "I could never hate you."

"I know," Zenyatta replies. "But you meant what you said: you hate what I did for Genji because it robbed you of the retribution you feel that you deserve. You hate it that I am trying to make you understand and accept this."

He does not deny.

"Maybe this was a mistake," Zenyatta says and hovers up, bringing his hands to his lap, face turned persistently away and he can _sense_ the hurt, the frustration. He has never known a person as selfless and good as Zenyatta, and feeling these _negative_ emotions surround him suddenly feels wholly wrong. His spheres usually flickering with pale blue or bright golden lights now suddenly have a nasty toxic purple glow to them, their harmonious chime suddenly broken by a discordant sound every now and then. It is unsettling: he has only ever seen this side of Zenyatta when he fights those he knows are in the wrong, about to sow their own discord to the world around them.

He looks down, swallows hard. "It is what I have been trying to tell you all this time," he says.

Zenyatta doesn't leave. The discordant sounds are there and he can sense the _wrongness_ , but Zenyatta is not leaving. And suddenly Zenyatta is at him, so close, hands splayed gently on his cheeks, forcing him to face the mask Zenyatta wears, and the sheer stregth in his voice makes it seem like the emotion is on face.

"I understand now," he says, holds his head still, so close, "this is not about Genji, this was never about Genji. It has always been about you, about how much you hate _yourself_ , cannot accept _yourself_ , how Hanzo Shimada does not deserve to live."

"Stop," he says.

The lights on Zenyatta's spheres are still toxic purple, almost painful to look at, and he understands Zenyatta now considers the other side of the coin and the way he peels it all off, splays everything open, leaves him raw and bare.

"But there is hope yet, because you are still here," Zenyatta says, softer now, and the purple disappears as the golden light of dawn intensifies and he's once again wrapped in an embrace of a million golden arms, tucking everything he dragged out back into hiding and smoothing over the hurt, and Zenyatta is his everything in a world where nothing exists.

_You are worthy,_ are the words he is not sure Zenyatta said out loud that echo through his mind after the arms retreat and the apparition is gone. It is his voice, but the words were not spoken. _You are worthy_.

"Now, we can begin," Zenyatta says, definitely out loud, and traces his fingers down his cheek, smile in his voice.


	4. Four

He keeps his restless vigil over the moonlit quiet rooftops of Hanamura, the city lights further away polluting what little would be visible of the sky under the invasive masses of clouds heavy with rain. The wind smells distantly of summer and the sakura around Hanamura have shed their petals weeks ago already.

He senses Zenyatta before seeing him, hears the ever-gentle chime of the spheres that orbit him and peeks down over the curved edge of the roof down to the fine gravel-covered yard below. Zenyatta looks up at him, tilting his head slightly, and with the roll of his eyes and some acrobatics he helps hoist the otherwise lousy climber – and surprisingly heavy – of an omnic on the roof with him. Zenyatta looks, if even possible, rather ill at ease on the roof. Maybe it's just the slight change in his demeanor, the way he leans more back, the way his hands are not entirely relaxed on his lap and he doesn't know _how_ but he can _see_ the tension there, in the way he carries himself. So human, yet so not.

Zenyatta gazes over towards the city and the lights, listens to the distant sounds of life Hanamura is excluded from.

"It is rather quaint," he says. "Town of flowers."

He doesn't answer: it's been his home for nearly forty years. He knows it's _quaint_ and a gazillion other things visitors tend to say and he doesn't much care for it. He _knows_ Hanamura, _his_ Hanamura, and he doesn't care what anyone else thinks of it.

"I can imagine you here," Zenyatta continues after a while. "You and Genji, as boys."

"That was a long time ago," he admits, because there is a seed of truth there, but it didn't last for long. "Until duty."

"So I've come to understand." Zenyatta nods.

He gives the omnic a narrowed-eyed glare. "You said my brother avoids the subject."

"Yes, but he's told me of his past enough for me to piece things together: figure out where Hanzo Shimada might fit," Zenyatta replies and turns his head slightly towards him. "How you were to be the head of the clan while your brother would rather spend his life the way he wanted to and not the way his family did."

He turns away, figures it's pointless to tell Zenyatta that he's pieced it together just fine.

"Your family did not much care for Genji's personal wishes," Zenyatta says.

"My family was about honor. My brother defied it," he says, feeling unbridled fury blossom into life in the void inside his chest and he reaches for the jug of sake hanging from his waist. Zenyatta's hand is there on his arm to stop him mid-movement and for a second everything just stops. The wind settles, the lights don't blink, the Earth does not spin.

"It cannot be your answer to everything," Zenyatta says quietly, now facing him properly, holding his arm back with surprising strength.

He gives up without fight, mostly because he does not want to make Zenyatta upset although he is quite sure he could have twisted the omnic's arm until he had to let go; escaped on some other roof where Zenyatta had no means to follow. But he thinks briefly back to their shared path and maybe he ought to follow Zenyatta for now: see where it leads.

He relaxes his arm, shows he won't be making an attempt for the jug anymore, and Zenyatta lets go, his intricate mechanical fingers trailing over the ink; over the dragon depicted on his skin.

"Tell me about it," Zenyatta says after brief silence, almost a joyful, curious note in his voice.

"About what?"

"You, and Genji," Zenyatta says. "When you were children."

"It was thirty years ago: you won't find anything there to solve the riddles laid before us," he says almost derisively.

Zenyatta shakes his head. "I just wish to hear. A happy memory. Genji shared some, I would… like to hear you do the same."

He perks up slightly, feels the same old ugly jealousy raise its head, fill the void, gnaw at his ribcage.

"I wonder if the stories are the same," Zenyatta continues softly.

He sits in silence for a while, lets the gentle wind whip at his face, tug at his clothes, and tries to recall a memory that isn't entirely tarnished by everything that happened years later. It is not exactly easy but eventually he remembers something, warns Zenyatta that he is not good at recanting tales of childhood long-forgotten, but Zenyatta just says he doesn't mind with smile in his voice.

So he tells the somewhat sordid story of sneaking into the pantry for some peaches in the middle of the night and another about him teaching his brother the places where you could climb up on the roofs before either of them really knew how to properly do it: when you needed to know which tree to climb and where exactly to shoot an arrow to use as a foothold. That was the time he grabbed his brother by foot when he lost his footing, and how the sandal just slid right off his foot. Genji suffered a couple of bruises but was really no worse for wear and they both laughed at it later.

When he's done – he doesn't realize any of it happening – he's leaning against Zenyatta's chest, settled rather comfortably between his legs with his own dangling over the curved decorative eave of the roof, and Zenyatta's hand brushes gently through his tied-up tuft of hair, careful not to leave any strand stuck between joints. It's all too comfortable, warm and achingly unexpected and he can feel his face heat up when the last words of the sordid childhood tale are out of his mouth and he realizes his predicament. He hears – _feels_ – something whirr softly underneath Zenyatta's chassis.

"He told the same one," Zenyatta says.

"I'm not surprised," he manages: they did not share a lot of memories. Not good ones, either way.

"More?" Zenyatta asks.

"I'm afraid that exhausted my reminiscence supply," he replies, fights to sound dismissive.

"Shame," Zenyatta says. "You would both keep secrets from me. What is so painful about your past you cannot share it?"

"Maybe the fact that I ended it all. Something like that tends to paint the rest in very ugly colors."

"Hanzo," Zenyatta says softly and then he's blinded, the night turning briefly into day and there's sun in his eyes, a million golden arms like rays of the sun rushing in to wrap him in a peaceful cocoon of compassion and warmth and love and Zenyatta shushes him, like the sound of wind chimes peaceful in the night, a streak of red like a whip, and then reality warps itself back around them like normal and the night is night again and Zenyatta just a small robot and not an entity bigger than life; than universe, and his mind can wrap around the thought of him again.

He tilts his head up and looks at Zenyatta, who looks down at him, and it's spur of the moment thing – don't think – and he rises up to reach, the distance between them insignificant, and kisses Zenyatta where his mouth sort of is, just desperate to do it because his words fail him: have failed him all this time.

Apparently it was something Zenyatta, in all his weird omnipotence, did not see coming, and he stills and suddenly all the spheres around him fall down, the loud sound of them hitting the tiles the only evidence of their actual weight. Zenyatta gathers himself – and his spheres – surprisingly quickly, and he manages to catch the only sphere that nearly rolled off the roof. He holds it on his open palm, genuinely surprised of the weight, when it just hovers up and resumes its place in the slowly rotating order around the omnic.

Zenyatta, however, still seems rather bemused, one hand over his lower face.

He has a feeling he might have done something very thoughtless just now, so he stands up, the gentle slope of the roof familiar, like walking on even ground. He still has no words to say, and he isn't going to apologize for something he has wanted, in retrospect, during all these moments they've shared, to do. He however apologizes for doing it without asking for permission first and therefore violating quite awfully Zenyatta's personal space. He tries to keep his voice steady and indifferent. It was very unbecoming of him; he lost restraint for a moment, he is sorry. He shuts up before he starts babbling, feeling nervous and uncomfortably fragile: opened up like a book for Zenyatta to read.

"Oh," is the only thing Zenyatta says after a while, hand still over his lower face.

He looks up over the suburbs sprawling towards the city and the lights and considers rain. It would be fitting. He mentions rain, says they better get back inside. He's quite sure Zenyatta's built to withstand rain and he won't short-circuit from getting doused, but he would rather not take the risk.

Zenyatta makes no attempt to stand – or hover – up so that he can help him down again, and rather just sits where he's sat all this time, hand still over his face and the other worrying quite adorably the worn-out fabric of his trousers.

"That was… something," Zenyatta finally says and if fluster can be heard in a voice, it is definitely there now. He sounds almost scared, but certain of himself, and like for once he actually has to _think_ what to say and the right words don't magically come to him like to the omnipotent all-knowing observer he often seems. Zenyatta is probably now processing something he didn't have to before, and he finds it almost weird to actually see the machine for once when he is so used to thinking of Zenyatta as a person. A person he is and he will never think of Zenyatta as just a machine, but he won't feign ignorance of his origins. He is rather certain Zenyatta wouldn't want that either.

He looks at Zenyatta, tries to gauge his level of discomfort, and whether it would be better to just leave it or pursue the subject now that Zenyatta's brought it up and it is right there, splayed wide open.

He remains quiet long enough for Zenyatta to break the silence: "And it _was_ quite pointless."

At that, he laughs. He doesn't even recognize his own voice and Zenyatta is likely just as taken aback and stunned if the slight drop of the spheres is of any indication. He doesn't lose control over them this time, but they visibly drop an inch or two before bouncing right back where they were and continue rotating slowly.

"Yes," he agrees.

Zenyatta chuckles quietly, finally lets the hand over his lower face fall back to his lap. "But the sentiment is not lost to me, if… if it was what you meant to get across. I do not understand why you couldn't have said so."

"I am not a man of words, you must have noticed," he replies.

"I have," Zenyatta agrees and looks at him. "But I am not exactly well-versed in… this sort of interaction. For all intents and purposes, I am a monk."

"I understand that and I apologize," he says and bows his head. Pointless, of course.

"No, Hanzo, please, you misunderstand!" Zenyatta hurries to say, urgency in his voice, almost like he's scared suddenly. "I think I return the sentiment! I can never be what you're likely looking for but if what I am is enough, I… have no qualms about this becoming more than what I initially thought it would be."

"How do you imagine knowing what I am looking for?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest and quirking an eyebrow. The question and gesture make Zenyatta almost visibly flustered and he starts to _fidget_ , which has got to be _the_ most human thing he's ever seen Zenyatta do, and also the most adorable.

"Well," Zenyatta starts, sounding uncertain, tilting his head. "Not… something like me. I am an omnic. An omnic monk. I imagine you would be rather seeking a… human partner."

"What if you are, as you are, exactly what I am looking for and I would not want anything else?" he asks, arms still crossed.

"Uh, I," Zenyatta says, now definitely even more bemused. "I am not certain. I have not considered having a partner, not before… you…"

He squats down next to Zenyatta; doesn't know if it's day or night anymore, sun or rain. Zenyatta's bright, the centerpiece of his world, the one thing everything revolves around, himself included, and he would have it no other way. He also hates seeing Zenyatta so lost, so he wants to make his intent clear and give the control of the situation to him. "Tekhartha Zenyatta, you are everything and anything I would ever want."

"Oh," Zenyatta says very uncharacteristically, betraying the youth under the mask of wisdom and metal.

A silence stretches between them, long and almost painful in the dark with the lights below illuminating only the most outstanding of their features.

 "I am very inexperienced," Zenyatta starts after a while, turns to look at the city lights, "so you'll excuse me if I… really don't know how I should react to this. No… there is no… basic programming, I was never…"

"It is alright, take your time," he says, markedly soft, quite certain that now, _now_ , he could wait forever. "I want you to do what you feel is right."

"I need to _think_ , and maybe learn," Zenyatta says finally and looks at him.

He offers a hand and after a moment Zenyatta takes it, tight but not too tight, and pulls himself up. Seeing him stand is rather strange since he tends to hover so much, and although he is small of build, he's only a tiny bit shorter than him.

"This is _precarious,"_ Zenyatta mutters, looking down at his footing, his feet undeniably awkward-looking on the sloped roof.

"I'll get you down," he promises, and hurries on to carry out that promise, using the same tricks he used to get Zenyatta on the roof in the first place to get him down as well. Zenyatta's still standing rather than hovering when he lands gracefully next to him, barely letting out a sound despite having leapt down. He dusts gravel off his palms and offers a hand to Zenyatta. Zenyatta takes it before they set off towards what he doesn't really call 'home'.

Zenyatta is quiet, contemplative, while they walk, and he's calm and peaceful, _actually_ peaceful, like one piece of some puzzle had just clicked in place. He doesn't hear ghosts of footfalls behind the corners, doesn't see shadows against the sky; danger nonexistent nowhere. There is no need to keep his never-ending vigil: he knows they are safe here. He would welcome the rain: it would be wonderfully calming and atmospherically beautiful. He finds strange calm in the situation: that particular heavy secret is off his conscience, and whatever Zenyatta decides, he will accept it.

"It _is_ alright if I contemplate on this?" Zenyatta turns to him before they climb up the rickety, narrow staircase up to the attic.

He nods. "Take all the time you need," he repeats something he said a while ago, and then: "May I?" to which Zenyatta nods the tiniest of nods, and he leans briefly closer and reaching up on his toes presses his lips against Zenyatta's forehead, on the lights burning there. Much to his delight Zenyatta does not flinch or pull away or show any other sign that the gesture was unwanted. He seems calm and rational.

"Yes," Zenyatta says and his hand lands tentatively on his waist, as if he's suddenly scared to touch, and he flinches because the touch almost literally burns and makes him shiver. "It is all so new," Zenyatta says then, almost like breathes it out, which cannot be because he doesn't breathe but does a very good approximation of it anyhow, "these emotions, they were here all the time, but I never really took notice, didn't understand what made me so happy to see you, be with you… why it hurts so much to see you upset and how much I would want to do something, _anything_ , to quell the hurt… I _will_ sort everything out and I will return your sentiment and I will love you, Hanzo Shimada."

He shakes his head, good-humored, chuckles quietly. He's certain he will feel the tender pressure of Zenyatta's fingers on his waist long after he's pulled his hand away. "Do not promise something like that."

"But if," Zenyatta says again, "I am quite certain? Either way, I need to learn about a lot of things, I think."

 

 

Zenyatta tries. He tries adorably hard to go by whatever he has probably learned from somewhere about human relationships and _romance_ , and he tells Zenyatta to just be himself; that he doesn't need to do anything differently now or be something that he is not: he has all these feelings for Zenyatta _because_ of everything he is, not _despite_ of it.

Zenyatta still hesitates, not certain if there is something he _needs_ to do or if there's something _he_ expects of him, and in the end he scoffs loudly, pulls Zenyatta close and tells him gently that none of it matters. He presses a soft kiss against the side of Zenyatta's head and says that having Zenyatta in his life in exactly this capacity is more than he could ever ask for. Zenyatta tells him he could ask a lot more and he shushes the omnic, not used to such words of encouragement and he isn't fishing for compliments either.

He feels almost weightless, like floating, for the first time in a very, very long time. Their conversations become – after a short period of awkwardness when they are both painfully aware of the new steps they are taking – more comfortable than before, and although he is still quite ill at ease when talking about himself or his past or his brother, it starts to feel less like someone is painfully peeling off his skin and more like something he does voluntarily, because he trusts Zenyatta and wants to hear the smile in his voice and see the slight tilt of his head when they reach _something_ ; some important waypoint Zenyatta has undoubtedly mentally marked down on their shared path.

And he loves hearing more about Zenyatta: previously their conversations were all about _him_ with Zenyatta offering the wisdom he's gathered on his travels, taught by the Shambali, or figured out on his own – he is very smart, a machine with the human ability to feel empathy and learn – without telling much about _himself_. Zenyatta seems surprised when he asks him about his life with the Shambali and what it means to Zenyatta personally, and after a short, rather strange adjustment period, he starts telling things about himself. The more is revealed the less he seems like a machine: it's not like he hasn't considered Zenyatta more of a person than a robot for a long time now, but learning about his past and how he has memories and _preferences_ makes him seem even more human than before.

He could have never imagined that Zenyatta's favorite color is blue.

He tells Zenyatta he feels peaceful at times, like the ugly thoughts are held at bay by whatever weird powers Zenyatta wields and Zenyatta shakes his head, says he's doing it all by himself, and he realizes it's just Zenyatta rather than anything he does. He's _happy_ , for the time being sharing his life with the most unlikely person, and it seems to make a world of difference.

And what truly makes him happy is when he hears the smile in Zenyatta's voice and the _'I never imagined I could feel this kind of happiness'_ whispered in a low voice in the dead of the night with Zenyatta curled up next to him. It's rather awkward: Zenyatta is all hard angles and metal-like alloy, but he does not care, he's just glad to share a space with Zenyatta and he kisses the lights on his forehead, holds his hand tighter and he's in love.

One day Zenyatta is borrowing one of his yukata – it's too big for him: they might be of same height but Zenyatta's a slight little thing while he has wide back and shoulders – to wear outside and he's showing him how to wrap everything right and tie the obi and Zenyatta observes with great concentration and interest. After he's done Zenyatta touches the flawlessly tied obi with his fingertips and he just watches and cannot help the rare smile from sidling to his face because his heart is close to _bursting_. Zenyatta looks up at him then and almost looks like he does a double-take, head twitching slightly, and then he touches his face, still smiling because he can't help it and to be honest why would he try to hide it from Zenyatta at all? Let him be an open book to Zenyatta. Well, more open than normal, anyway.

"Is that?" Zenyatta asks and he _is_ genuinely bemused, "am I glitching or are you _smiling?"_

He just nods, doesn't answer either question, and draws Zenyatta gently closer into an embrace, brushing his lips over the lights on his forehead.

"Oh," Zenyatta says quietly and returns the embrace. "Me too," he continues.

"No one has, in years, cared about _me,_ only of what I can do," he confesses, feels the still-odd shapes of the back of Zenyatta's chassis beneath the fine cotton of the yukata under his fingers, the ridges of his mechanical spine, thinks whether or not Zenyatta can even feel the touch, or how does it feel. "You are the only one."

"You shouldn't have kept to yourself so much," Zenyatta replies softly, runs his intricate fingers through his hair. "People could have seen what I see now."

"Then I would not have you now. Solitude was my choice," he says. "But I am ever so glad you came into my life."

"As am I," Zenyatta returns and holds him tighter. "Although, I have to be honest, it was not what I expected."

_"Koi ni shishou nashi,"_ he whispers: finds it easier to actually speak of how he feels in his native language.

Zenyatta is silent for a moment, nuzzles softly closer and slides his hands over his shoulders, fingertips brushing the sides of his neck. "It would seem so," Zenyatta finally replies, and his love is overflowing.

 

 

And as usual everything comes crashing down very fast and in a soul-scarring way, and he thinks he has to be cursed, that this is divine retribution for daring to even contemplate stopping to feel remorse for what he did to his brother and everything thereafter. He is not allowed happiness. He is allowed to live and suffer the consequences.

He hasn't had an assassin sent after him in a while, probably because of what remains of his family does not expect him to reside right outside the Shimada castle, but he should have known it was only a matter of time until someone took notice. It is quiet in the middle of the night in the small inner yard garden behind the shop his attic is in, and even through the balance and harmony of meditation and the soft pitter-patter of a spring shower he can hear the footfall on the wet roof tiles and he's already reaching for his bow and notching an arrow when there's the soft pop of a silenced firearm and suddenly Zenyatta's in front of him, he sees the lights flicker and his arrow flies past the omnic collapsing on top of him and there's a gurgle from the roof and then a loud thud as the assassin falls down, an arrow through his throat. A series of louder thuds follow as the spheres around Zenyatta drop to the ground.

And Zenyatta is motionless against him and when he, with growing dread, pushes the quite heavy omnic away he sees the lights are off and there's a smoking hole straight through his face below one slit of an eye and there is no reaction, nothing, when he calls out his name.

"You _promised,"_ he hisses through clenched teeth, panic like a storm gathering at the horizon.

Back _then_ he had been conscious, he had taken his hand, the lights had flickered. He had spoken. Now there's nothing. He shakes Zenyatta and his head just sort of lolls from side to side like it's heavy and he seems completely lifeless and after a while he realizes he doesn't feel the soft thrum of his systems through his chassis and he really is… not there… and the storm rolls ashore, full of rage, swallowing all the light. He's incapable of doing anything but staring at the lifeless omnic in his arms and thinking that he should have never let Zenyatta into his life, what was he thinking?! He cannot do right by anyone. He's forced to be part of the murder of all the people he finds dear in his life and he runs a trembling hand across Zenyatta's cheek, grabs his hand in hopes of Zenyatta squeezing it back but there is no response.

Maybe his brother will finally kill him for this and set him free from the agony that his life is.

It takes a while to overcome the shock and panic and grief but he eventually manages to gather Zenyatta properly on his arms (so horribly unmoving: he's woken up many a morning next to Zenyatta in his resting state and although he is unresponsive there is still the spark of _life_ under his chassis, the soft whirr and hum of his systems working) and hurry back inside and up the stairs, rummage through what little belongings he has for the communication device he got from Winston way back when. He really doesn't know what else to do, so he contacts Overwatch. They know Zenyatta. They can contact Genji. Dr. Ziegler has to know something about robotics. They _must_ know how to fix this.

Overwatch promises to send a pick-up ASAP and he just leaves the coordinates, the address of the shop and the attic, and he lays Zenyatta down on his futon, for some silly reason pulls the covers over him, as if he could get cold or as if he was just… sleeping. He goes back to the inner yard to get the inert, lightless spheres as well and places all nine of them next to Zenyatta on the futon. Then he takes what little he can fit in the pouches on his belt, and his bow and quiver, and leaves. He goes through the Shimada castle, kills everyone he sees while passing through, and makes it into the wilderness away from Hanamura, not really certain where he's going except away where he can stop making mistakes.


	5. Five

A few weeks later he's literally half-way across the world, somewhere in northern Europe, when his brother catches up to him and actually holds him at swordpoint again, now genuinely angry that he better come back to Overwatch HQ with him if he feels even the slightest bit of remorse. He asks Genji if he can grant him the death he wishes and Genji scoffs, says that right now he almost wants to, but he won't.

"Seeing what you caused will be worse," Genji says. "If it is as I think."

He would rather take death, but has no other choice but to follow his brother to watchpoint Gibraltar the Overwatch has adopted as their new secret headquarters. People greet Genji (some of them greet him as well, out of politeness rather than camaraderie) as they make their way through the facility, and his heart leaps to his throat when they arrive to the dormitories and he finds Zenyatta there, sitting cross-legged with the nine dots of light on his forehead and slowly rotating spheres around him, and Genji calls gently out to him: "Master."

Zenyatta lifts his head and turns towards them. "Genji," he says, smile in his voice and then: "And you must be Hanzo. It is nice to finally meet you, Genji told me we would, eventually."

First it makes no sense. Then the sudden cold feeling inside his chest spreads, liquid ice in his veins making him freeze all over when it dawns to him and he realizes Genji is facing him, probably gauging his reaction. He can't mask it, not all of it, it's all over his face; the shock and the hurt and the grief, all mixed with the sheer joy of getting to see Zenyatta _whole_ again, _alive_ again, but there's that one thing amiss, the one thing that makes all the difference in the world. Zenyatta is not his anymore.

He cannot say a word, he can hardly form coherent thoughts from the mess his mind has been reduced to, and Zenyatta notices, annoyingly observant as always, and turns his head slightly towards Genji. There is no hole on his face anymore but the metal shines differently where it used to be. Where he still sees it in his nightmares.

"What is wrong?" Zenyatta asks and then turns back to him. "Did I do something to upset you? I apologize, I'm afraid my form can be quite unsettling to humans."

"I cannot…" he breathes, covers his mouth briefly – completely involuntary gesture of desperation that probably tells Genji everything he needed to know – and then turns on his heels and almost runs away, back up the stairs and trying to remember the quickest way outside. He needs fresh air, he feels like he can't breathe. It's easy to parse together what must have happened even while he feels like his mind is shattering into pieces, the last vestiges of sanity that have kept him hanging to life with the excuse of remorse crumbling away. They were obviously able to fix Zenyatta but his memory must have been damaged beyond repair. He remembers Genji but the past few months have been obviously wiped from his systems completely.

_They_ do not exist. There is no willingness to help, no shared path, no returned affection, no love. Zenyatta back there does not know him and what they shared. Trying to catch his breath from the brink of a panic attack and having run all the way outside he thinks this outcome is worse than anything else he had imagined. Never seeing Zenyatta again or knowing he is no more would have both been fine: he would have known what he had lost and that it was his fault, but he would not have to live in a world where Zenyatta exists and is himself and, in some way, part of his life, but has no idea what there was; what and how much he means to him and he doesn't know if he can ever build all that again. And it is his fault, and every time he sees Zenyatta he would know it was his own fault: he did it, because of him Zenyatta does not remember; because of his own negligence he lost the most important person in his life.

He stands there leaning his back to the wall of some building with a hand over his eyes when he hears his brother approach, his soft footfalls familiar by now.

"So it is as I thought," Genji says, codeswitching to Japanese, stops a few feet away from him.

"Please leave me," he replies, caustic.

"I never thought you'd forge such a strong bond with my master," Genji continues, ignoring his plea. "The damage was severe, several blocks of memory had to be wiped clean to restore function. They couldn't be salvaged. Angela tried, and then Winston, even Torbjörn was willing to try, but Master would reboot with several system errors every time the damaged memory drive was installed."

"Yes, thank you, I got that."

Genji stays silent then.

"It is amusing… that the memory of… me, is a system error." He finds it almost genuinely funny in some extremely morbid way. Isn't he a glitch in Genji's past as well?

"It does not mean," Genji says after a short silence, "that you cannot ever reach the same point again."

"The previous time we first met he immediately told me he senses the same rage in me that he once did in you," he says. "It is already different. The path has diverged." He pushes himself off the wall, stands up straight and glances at his brother, at the green gleaming visor. "That future is in the past, and I will have to forge another."

He starts to leave but Genji grabs him by the wrist, grip viselike. "If you insist on being a fool and leaving, at least tell me if my master was happy with you."

"Why would you trust anything I say?" he replies, looking away. He never thought whether or not his brother would approve of the relationship: it never crossed his mind. Genji has been away from his life for so long he now feels guilty he never even considered whether or not being with Zenyatta was something Genji would approve of.

"You were a lot of things, Hanzo, but you were never a liar."

He's quiet for a time and contemplates while Genji holds on to his wrist, effectively keeping him in place. "He said he was," he finally says and each word stings painfully at his chest, at the memory of what was and will never be again. "I know I was. Too late I realized how selfish I was, how someone like me does not deserve happiness. Someone like him."

His reflexes are quick but Genji is faster now, enhanced by whatever cybernetics, and he does not even see the punch coming before Genji's first has connected with his jaw and he's stumbling back, the whole left side of his face radiating sharp pain. He deserved that. He'd deserve more, why can't Genji just draw his sword and drive it through his chest?

"How dare you," Genji starts and grabs again his wrist he let go for the duration of his punch, "be _so_ selfish you'd deny that happiness from someone else? From someone you _love?"_

He looks persistently away still, fingers massaging idly the smarting spot on his jaw and feeling a thick, suffocating something swell in his throat.

"Would you not allow that happiness to my master again?!" Genji demands, very good at keeping his voice from revealing the anger he knows must bubble beneath the surface.

" _Now_ he can find it somewhere else!" he barks.

"You would force him to look when it is right in front of him?!"

"He _does not remember me!"_ he finally shouts, turning to his brother and immediately breaking down, shoulders slumping, hand over his face, the suffocating something in his throat so thick he can't even swallow around it and the wrecking sob that comes out is completely involuntary, the final nail to his coffin. "I wish I didn't remember the way his hand felt in mine, his laugh, that warmth, how night would turn into day, the sound of wind chimes… please let me be. I lost the most important person in my life because I was careless. The fault is mine, I cannot do that to him again."

There is heavy silence and Genji's voice is sharp when he finally speaks. "I do not remember you ever taking lovers when we were young."

"I didn't. It would have been a distraction."

 "Master was the first." It's not a question, and he does not answer.

"The bullet had entered at the back of his head. His back had been to the assassin," Genji then says almost coolly, having obviously already figured out how everything had played out. "He had thrown himself in front of you to protect you."

"So you understand why it was my fault."

"I understand that he cared about you so much he was willing to sacrifice himself to save you," Genji replies. "And you would not allow him to experience that again. You truly are selfish. Leave, then. Maybe it is for the best."

He doesn't say anything. They stand for a moment longer in heavy silence, and then he leaves, takes a flight back to mainland and tries to shake the image of the Zenyatta-but-not-quite he just met. Thinking he is a different person now makes everything hurt a little less.

_He cared about you so much he was willing to sacrifice himself to save you_. He never asked for it. He had never asked for any of it.

 

He returns inside, seething quietly and even more frustrated still because he cannot stop himself from feeling _bad_ for his brother. Of course he doesn't really think Hanzo deserved what happened and he is way past dwelling in the past, unlike Hanzo. He's forgiven and moved on and while he knows they will never be like the brothers they once were, he hopes some burned bridges could be built up again.

But his brother is a martyr and a stubborn idiot and now he will never know if Zenyatta was helping him with his issues or did they just traipse around Hanamura like fools in love. He can't see it happening, but who knows: he has never, _ever_ , seen that side of his brother (and frankly isn't too keen about getting a chance to witness it either, although he wouldn't mind seeing his brother happy – or at least not so wretchedly miserable – for once).

He makes his way back to the dormitories where Zenyatta waits, uncharacteristically restless.

"Was it something I did?" he asks immediately, sounding worried. "I sensed great sadness in him and that he… knows me." Zenyatta tilts his head. "Tell me, Genji, have we met before?"

He takes a seat next to his master and sighs. "Yes," he admits. "You know your memory got damaged."

"Yes, of course. My logs are still a mess because of time and date discrepancies. Fixing all of it manually is rather tedious, but I would of course rather do it than risk a system hang-up in the middle of a mission. It is why I am still convalescent. Did I meet your brother during the time I have no memory of?"

"More than that," he says after a short contemplation. "You stayed a long time with him in Hanamura. My home town, remember?"

Zenyatta regards him with a quiet stare and he chuckles awkwardly.

"You… you said you sensed in him the same anger you used to sense in me. From what I understand – we did not talk about it that much – you wanted to help him and kept offering until he accepted."

"But there was no anger," Zenyatta says, sounding puzzled. "Was I successful, then?"

"That, I cannot say," he says and shakes his head. "But you became close."

"Like you and me?"

"Not quite the same," Genji replies after short contemplation. He does not want to lie and he definitely does not want to reveal things that should be revealed by his brother and no one else, so he skirts carefully around the subject and lets Zenyatta draw his own conclusions.

There is a heavy silence and then Zenyatta tilts his head towards him, observant as always. "…I took that bullet for him, did I not?"

He nods.

"He thought he had gotten me killed?" Zenyatta asks. "But why the sadness? Why would he run away like that, upset? I would imagine he would be happy to see that I am really no worse for wear."

To that, he has no straight answer. If whatever feelings there were developed gradually over the time Zenyatta and Hanzo got to know each other better, he cannot just tell Zenyatta – who has no recollection of those feelings – what they had shared. He _knows_ Zenyatta: he would feel responsible and throw himself into something he cannot be sure of just because he hates seeing other people suffer.

"Genji?" Zenyatta tries to urge an answer out of him.

"It might be better you found out for yourself," he says and looks at Zenyatta. "I will arrange a flight to Japan for you. I assume my brother will sooner or later return to Hanamura to brood in that hideous little room of his."

"Town of flowers, yes," Zenyatta says and chuckles at his amused little scoff. He nods, then. "I think that might be for the best. If we spent as long a time together as you say we did, he can surely explain what happened during that time and I can try to mend whatever made him so unhappy to see me."

He hopes it would be that easy, but knowing his stubborn mule of a brother Zenyatta will likely have to fight his way back into Hanzo's life, much like he fought his way into his company in the first place.

 

 

It's not that he particularly wants to go back to Hanamura anymore: it is now haunted by more ghosts he can possibly handle without going insane, but the order came from the Overwatch higher-ups, delivered to him by his brother who seems to have the uncanny ability to find him no matter what secluded part of the world he tries to find some solace at (this time it was in northern Canada: he rather enjoys the cold and the wilderness). If he isn't going to work for Overwatch anymore, they need to have the communicator with his recall code back: that can't end up in wrong hands, and since he has no intent whatsoever to return to Overwatch, he had left the communicator back at Hanamura when he left.

So he has to go get it back and take it to his brother and then he's free of the ball and chain that is Overwatch.

He doesn't even suspect shenanigans until he's climbing the rickety stairs up to the attic he somewhat almost considered a home at one time and he senses that someone's up there already. There's really nothing out of the ordinary about anything, but thirty years of assassin training has given him something of a sixth sense for things that Should Not Be. He draws his bow and quietly slides an arrow out of the quiver, notching it while he slowly, with careful steps, approaches the door which is ajar. He stops to listen, but there's nothing but the strange sensation of _something_ that's not supposed to be there, and he kicks open the door and points the arrow straight at Zenyatta, who hovers near the wall with the small, dirty window giving out to the inner yard and holding that dumb stuffed onion toy Genji got for him back in what feels like years ago.

Zenyatta turns to him, startled, and he's shocked enough to keep his bow drawn, staring at the omnic while he vaguely realizes that his legs are starting to shake.

Why Zenyatta's presence didn't feel the same as before he doesn't know, but chalks it quickly up to the fact that this is not the Zenyatta he used to know. This is Zenyatta who does not know him; has no ties to him, no willingness to help or be a friend.

"Hanzo," Zenyatta says somewhat warily as a way of greeting and he just continues staring, the tremble making its way through his body and making his aim shake. Whatever makes Zenyatta think they are on first-name basis? That is rude, he thinks. It has nothing to do with how his name, said by Zenyatta, resonates within; squeezes the life out of his heart.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he finally asks and with great effort manages to lower his bow. In hindsight, yes, he should have known something like this had to be afoot. His brother is not the meddling type, but he supposes this must be his doing. He's not sure if he's glad to see Zenyatta or if it's the worst thing in the world.

The worst thing might be that he cannot just go to him and hold him and kiss the stupid lights on his forehead and tell him how happy he is to see him returned. So he just stands up straight, slides the arrow back into the quiver and shoulders his bow while he waits for Zenyatta to answer. Zenyatta worries the stuffed toy in his hands.

"My brother sent you," he finally says, when the silence has stretched on for an uncomfortably long time. He's not used to trying to draw things out of Zenyatta: _Zenyatta_ was the one who talked while he just mostly listened. He hardly ever initiated conversations. Not during their first times together, anyhow.

"Yes," Zenyatta nods. "My memory…"

"Got damaged, yes, I know. Suppose you also know why."

"Yes."

That makes his heart thump painfully against his ribcage. His brother didn't tell Zenyatta _everything_ , did he?!

Zenyatta's quiet for a moment longer, then speaks, and it's the toneless calm voice he hasn't heard in a long, long time, and it makes his heart hurt even worse. "I would of course strive to sacrifice myself for any friend of mine, but… your brother left me with an impression that it wasn't as simple as that." Zenyatta turns to him and holds out the toy. "This was mine, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he replies, feeling the thick something in his throat again. "My brother got it for you this one time when he visited."

"Ah," Zenyatta says and looks down at the toy. "I thought it might have been something you gave me."

"No, I… never gave you anything," he says. It's not technically a lie. He never did give Zenyatta anything concrete; any mementos like that toy. He now regrets it. Kisses, gifts of words, embraces, secrets, his heart… none of those count; there is no evidence of them ever existing.

Zenyatta sets the toy aside and turns to him proper, hands folded on his lap. He cannot _not_ look at the shinier bit of metal under Zenyatta's right slit of an eye. "Genji told me that the first time we met I sensed in you the same anger I did in him, and it sent me to pursue to lend you a helping hand. I sense no anger now," he says and tilts his head a little. "Was I successful?"

He remains quiet. The anger's still there, he supposes: whatever they were working on was left unfinished.

"I sense a lot of other things, though," Zenyatta continues. "There is so much conflict, such sadness." He raises a hand and reaches tentatively out for him, quite like he did during one of the first times he was there, in this room, an eternity between them, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to make that leap of faith and see where the path would lead.

"Heartbreak," Zenyatta says.

His brow furrows and he steps out of the doorway. "Please leave," he says and avoids looking at Zenyatta.

"Why?"

"Because you are not welcome."

"I do not understand."

"You say there is no anger anymore, so obviously you completed your task. You can be on your way," he says and gestures towards the open door while Zenyatta makes no attempt to leave, rather just remaining hovering confused on the other side of the small room.

"I wish you would explain."

"There is _nothing_ to explain," he barks out.

"There is anger now," Zenyatta points out weakly.

"Yes, but it is not the one that made you come here in the first place, this is purely because of your stubbornness."

"So after the anger was gone, what made me stay?" Zenyatta asks and that question is like a damned arrow through his heart.

He bleeds dry. "You wanted to!" he says, whipping his head towards Zenyatta. "You stayed because…" and he cannot continue so he falls abruptly silent, casts his eyes down and heaves a frustrated sigh. " _Please_ , leave."

"You hurt," Zenyatta observes quietly. "You are incredibly hurt but the wounds are not visible to the eye. I stayed because I saw something no one else has ever seen," he finally fills in the blank and comes closer: to him or the door, he cannot really tell yet.

"Because you became something no one else has ever been," he admits quietly, tired of the conflict. "But there is no point anymore: you do not remember the circumstances that lead to that outcome and holding you to promises you don't remember making would not make me happy. Please, Zenyatta, just go, and leave me with my memories of you."

"Do you assume it wasn't here from the start, that I did not sense it when you stepped into the room back in Gibraltar for the first time; do you assume I did not _feel_ the connection?"

"How could you, you do not have those memories."

"Do you think I did not feel that when I met you for the first time? The first time I do not remember? I do not need memories to know that you are something special," Zenyatta replies softly, placing his hand over his chest. "I might not remember who exactly you are, but…" he keeps a short contemplative pause, "you are aware of the concept of the red string of fate?"

Zenyatta is so close he could touch and his resolve weakens by the second. And he remembers the thin stretch of red amidst gold and light.

" _Unmei no akai ito._ Of course," he scoffs.

Zenyatta reaches out for him, places his hand on his chest (cool fingers, painfully familiar). "That is also what I sensed. We are forever tied together. You are in love with me."

He stays quiet, quite rendered speechless by Zenyatta's bluntness.

"I cannot say I am too familiar with the human concept but I assume I learned once so I can learn it again."

"Zenyatta, please…"

"Why do you resist?" Zenyatta says, almost frustrated. "I am correct, am I not?"

"It doesn't feel right!" he finally says and takes Zenyatta's hand, pushes it away from his chest but keeps it in his hold. Zenyatta's fingers immediately curl around his palm and his heart bleeds. "Those feelings grew over months, over a long period of time of us getting to know each other. I cannot… ask you to jump straight into that just because you know how I feel."

"Genji did say you are a martyr," Zenyatta says, sounding amused now.

"My brother is a blowhard," he scoffs.

Zenyatta laughs and the sun is in the room blinding him, thousand silver bells in the air; wind chimes in the distance. "And you are an idiot," he says gently. "It's not like we cannot start from the beginning again. Walk the path together. I have a lot to contemplate anyhow: like I said, I am not too familiar with the human concept of love."

"Yes, you… you said that the last time," he says quietly.

"There. And you can tell me how we made it work the last time," Zenyatta continues in the same gentle tone and then hovers closer, into his personal space, and wraps his arms around him, and just like many times before everything gets very bright and a thousand rays of the sun like arms rush to embrace him with warmth, mending that which is broken. A wild thin stretch of red wraps around them like a ribbon of blood and after the brief apparition there are wind chimes in the distance and Zenyatta is in his arms, small and lithe, all hard edges, and the spheres around him are satellites for them both.

"You _are_ relentless," he whispers and holds Zenyatta close.

"I am glad I am," Zenyatta replies, almost smug. "I get to experience this with you. Again, apparently."

There is silence, comfortable, like the ones they used to share.

"I do love you," he admits quietly. "Most ardently."

"I believe I will one day know how to return that sentiment again," Zenyatta replies and then draws away a little to look at him, tilting his head. "Why would you not get me a cute stuffed toy?"

"Do you want a cute stuffed toy?" he asks.

"Yes."

"I will get you one."

Zenyatta chuckles, the closest to a smile he can do without words.

 

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this not-even-really-a-story. Thank you for reading. <3


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